I Hate Your Customer Service
I am incapable of rationally dealing with customer service. This inability is ingrained into my DNA. It is tattooed on my soul. When God was molding me from his big bin of Play-Doh, he tossed in a little too much 'impatience for the disembodied voice on the other end of the phone who's really trying to help me but I think is out to get me because I am fucking insane.' So I blame him, and not my impatience issues. I suggest you do the same with any shortcomings. Makes people really respect you at gatherings.
My impatience with customer service really makes life difficult, because I love to order shit from online. I am lazy, and clicking buttons solves the whole getting up off my ass and going to the store problem. I also hate dealing with sales people in stores. I have about 56 people come up to me at Barnes & Nobles, asking me if I need help. Then I feel like they keep bothering me because they think I'm stealing. Then I start to feel guilty even though I haven't done anything wrong. STOP STARING AT ME AND WHISPERING INTO YOUR HEADSET! I look like an asshole who isn't smooth enough to steal free matched, so why don't you worry about the guy lingering in the mystery section, carrying the jumbo-sized North Face backpack, stuffing it full of James Patterson books or some other horseshit.
Ultimately, when I shop online, there will be a problem with my order. And I will have to find the goddamn customer service phone number BURIED somewhere on the website. This pisses me off too. These websites boast supreme customer service, but then they try to make you solve your problem by scrolling through a series of troubleshooting "help" tabs. Well, fuck your tabs. My case is unique, don't you see? I need someone to delicately hold my hand and walk me through each step and explain everything to me, or just do it for me because I can't get past the goddamn log-in page GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!
Calling customer service is equally as bad. Hey automated voice, you think you're so smart, well how do you like it when I hit 0 fifty fucking times in a row? You're sorry, you don't understand, I'M FUCKING SORRY TOO, HOW ABOUT I KEEP HITTING 0, YOU PIECE OF SHIT???
This actually works on occasion, which is nice. I hit 0 until my finger cracks and bleeds or I scream "OPERATOR" into the receiver until the cyborg on the other end gives up and lets me through to a precious customer service agent. I should have a camera crew on me at all times when I call in to customer service. If a psychiatrist watched me, I'd be committed on the spot. I either scream "OPERATOR, OPERATOR, OPERATOR" or "MANAGER, MANAGER, MANAGER" until I'm redirected. Touch-tone options are for fucking peasants. I want the real thing.
And once I get a customer service rep on the phone with real arteries and lungs and eyeballs, I always try to be pleasant. Honestly, I do. Because I know that they want to be doing what they're doing about as much as I want to be speaking with them and trying to find out when I can expect my signed photograph of Johnny Hector to arrive. But occasionally they will get sassy with me. And then I have to return that sass, for fear of losing of street credit with the zero people that give a shit whether or not some dude from Mumbai served me. I never bring that shit to them first, but I do look forward to returning it when one of the agents gets a little coarse when responding to one of my simple questions. You want to fucking dance, Azim? You want to fucking dance with me? Well, you just say when. I'll fucking dance all night, sucka, it's not like I have anything better to do!
I had an agent hang up on me once. No joke, the dude got so angry and frustrated he just clicked the phone down. He was probably trotted into the streets of Delhi and caned because I was being a whiny bitch about something. But did I feel bad? Fuck no. Mess with the bull, you get the horns, my man.
And this is why everyone hates America. But still, you present me with no other options, large company. You force me to speak with either an automated voice or some guy nineteen hours in the future who doesn't think it's funny when I ask him to tell me the outcome of the baseball game I'm watching so I can win a little cash. You're ahead of me in time, get it? Get it? What, you don't find my hysterical jokes funny? THEN PUT ME ON THE PHONE WITH YOUR SUPERVISOR.