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Thursday, November 4, 2010

The Tale of the Dancing Chicken

For the past two months, I've been at war with Verizon Wireless over my cell phone bill, after one of their representatives changed my plan and crammed my account with a bunch of shit I neither wanted nor needed, just so he could make his monthly sales quota.  Their official stance on the situation is the verbal equivalent of the facial expression a constipated moron makes in an airport bathroom, while trying to pass the kilo of smack his dealer convinced him to eat for breakfast.  It's the look that says, "Dude, where's my official Verizon Wireless flagpole? Oh wait, it's stuck up my ass. THANK YOU FOR HOLDING WHILE I RESEARCHED THAT FOR YOU."

To be completely honest, I gave up ever reaching a satisfactory resolution with Verizon Wireless weeks ago, right around the time I called the representative who made the adjustments to my account, only to have him pretend to be his own voicemail recording halfway through my introduction.  So now I'm in it purely for the catharsis of getting to scream at someone about everything and nothing at the same time. I figure if they're going to charge me $800 to get out of my contract, I had might as well slap a caduceus on it and call it a psychiatric co-pay.

Probably you think that's horrible of me, and I can't say that I disagree with you. But if you think about it, I worked in private label retail collections for FIVE YEARS, so this is just karma paying me my dues.  Plus, now all those representatives know what it's like to deal with an angry paranoid schizophrenic customer. Talk about win/win.

Anyway, our last "session" resulted in me "accidentally" breaking the display on my cell phone, the one I just bought in August, the one they were insisting I had insurance on until I actually tried to use it, in which case, whoops, we took that off last time, ma'am, but if you would like to add a web package to your plan, we'll be happy to send you a car window cling and a year's supply of government cheese.

So there I was, earlier this afternoon, stranded at a Wal-Mart thirty miles from home because my car had overheated, with nothing but a dead cell phone and the molten bitter ire I felt for its network, when who should walk by but a dancing chicken holding a CA$H 4 GOLD! sign.

"Excuse me," I said to the chicken. "Do you know where I can find a payphone?"

The chicken looked at me for a long while. "A what?"

"A payphone," I said. "I need to make a call."

Another look of confusion from the chicken.  "What is that?"

"What is what?"

"A payphone?" the chicken asked. "What is that?"

"It's...a payphone," I said to him. I didn't know how else to explain it. "You put money in it and it calls out."

"Huh," he said. "I ain't never seen one of those.  Sounds cool, though.  Maybe they have one in electronics."

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