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By Steven Cleamer, May 3rd, 2007
What did I do to deserve this? Is it because I stuffed that nerd Terry Stephenson in his locker back in 8th grade? Did I tip the scales of karma out of my favor when I pissed on a downed telephone pole that I crashed into after a hard night of binge drinking? Do the guys in blue hate me because of all the AOL CD's I've thrown away?
Whether I'm shopping for recordable DVDs to make backup copies of my robust "Goats & Midgets" collection or I need an entire home theater system to enjoy the rich sounds of midget on goat action, my consumer electronics store always manages to fuck me six ways from Sunday.
Why do employees with ten minutes of job training or supervisors with two digit IQ's and lackluster attention spans always serve me a tedious cocktail of stress, anxiety, and anger when I ask simple fucking questions?
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Why can't customer service give me pricing and availability on products or services in less than ten minutes and under seven hang-ups?
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Why is it that when I politely tell the checkout clerk "No!" in response to all ten attempts to get me to buy an extended warranty, I must consider either breaking down and buying it or beating the asshole with a drywall hammer to get him to stop asking?
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How come the Web site says you have it, but when I drive all the way down there to get it, you don't have it, you have no idea when you'll be getting one in, and there isn't a fucking thing I can do about it?
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Why must a pimply-faced nimrod who spouts idiotic banter always educate me on why the Playstation 3 is "for the win" when all I wanted was a $30 DVD player? Secondly, who is the pinhead who came up with "for the win" anyway?
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Why is it when I ask a store employee for information on a product, he's going to cop an attitude with me when none of the in-store terminals work because one of your supervisors sold him a bunk bag of skunk weed?
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How come when my lady friend isn't standing next to a product with a $1500 price tag and a credit card in hand, you either act like she's the most transparent bitch in the store or treat her like an absolute cunt for not standing next to a product with a $1500 price tag?
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Why is it that when I take my computer to one of your agents, geeks, dorks, or techs, he spends more time trying to impress me with his stupid Halloween costume, dressed up to look like he'll continue to live in his parents' basement for the next 20 years, instead of just fixing my God damn computer?
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