More road rage

Here's a nostalgic little gem.  I know, I know, it's a little early for reruns or a clip show, but I justify it with the following three points: (1) not all of you knew me when I wrote it, (2) it's still pretty damn funny, in my opinion, and (3) it's my blog.

America is going to die on the roads. Today, I was privvy to so many acts of vehicular idiocy that I seriously began to suspect I was being Punk'd. First, I witnessed a brilliant motorist sitting at a stop sign decide, suddenly, to take a fast left-hand turn into traffic going 30+, cutting between two other vehicles that were separated, at most, by twenty feet. Next, as I was leaving GRTV, someone in an early-90s minivan made a partial right turn, only to stop with their ass hanging out into the road they just left. This effectively blocked anyone from making a similar turn, simultaneously prevented me from seeing down that road, and provided a minor impediment to anyone still attempting to follow the van's original heading. Several overweight women disembarked. Not one minute later, as I was still marveling at the previous display, a parallel-parked SUV attempted to pull out into the road ahead of me. And by 'ahead of me' I mean I was roughly parallel to him when he did this. All three of these incidents happened on the same, slushy, ice-covered road, within a mile of each other.

But it wasn't over. Whilst returning from Meijer, I was coming to a stop at a four-way, which happened to feature a Fifth-Third Bank on the right-hand corner. As I pulled to a stop behind three or four other cars, a large luxury sedan started to pull out of the bank lot, coming to a stop with their front bumper nearly touching my front right fender at a right angle. And they stopped. This meant they were both blocking the right turn lane completely, and preventing me from going forward for fear of raking the side of my car. They acted like they expected my car to evaporate into thin air. The van ahead of me, its driver seeing this lunacy in the mirror, pulled forward a half-car length, presumably to allow the sedan to adjust its heading and go around me (still a blatantly illegal maneuver, but safer than sitting where it was). But, no, the sedan just sat there as I stared at it, dumbfounded. Finally, after the light had been green for a few seconds and the other cars had driven off, I veered around the sedan and just made it through the intersection. In my mirror, I saw this sedan make a ridiculously wide turn back into the right-turn lane. What the hell is wrong with people? I am not the safest driver in the world, but I still wish minor accidents on every one of those motorists. Nothing fatal or crippling, but a good $600+ repair job and a case of whiplash to remind them there are other people on the road.

Tweets I would Tweet, if I Tweeted

Saw a sign outside a New Age store advertising a Psychic Fair on April 30th . . . shouldn't they already know?

I pulled into the parking lot of my local bank, where one other car was parked.  Four more were waiting in the drive-through line.  Explain.

When people say "God dang it" instead of saying "God damn it," do they realize they are still taking the Lord's name in vain?  'Damn' itself is not blasphemous.

It's not Ronald Reagan's 100th birthday, because he's dead.  There is no fucking Reagan Centennial.

I am officially over the whole Zombie craze.

Can you spot the problem with the following book title?  Christianity - The First 3000 Years.  (Hint: think about what A.D. stands for).  Yeah.

Memo to Miller Lite: coming up with a new slogan and/or gimmick every three months will not change your fizzy yellow swill into beer.  At least Budweiser knows this much.

"3 Teenagers shot and killed in murder near Mexico border."  This was an actual headline on The O'Reilly Factor.  Seriously?  "Killed in murder"?  Brilliant copy-editing.  I guess the mysterious 'O'Reilly factor' must be a 43rd chromosome.

Miley Cyrus's father, Achey Breaky Billy Ray Cyrus, admitted that he is a poor parent whose "management" of his impressionable daughter's career ruined their family.  Yeah, and Elton John just might be gay.

"Your call is important to us . . . just like every other one."

As those who know me personally or have read this blog are aware, a lot of things annoy me.  Bad driving.  Bible-thumpers.  Lady Gaga.  Persistent high winds.  Talking to "customer service" departments on the phone – an odd misnomer, since the primary purpose of such hotlines is plainly to confuse, exasperate, and screw customers as thoroughly as possible.  I am reminded of the governmental bureaus in George Orwell's 1984 (ie. the Ministry of Peace conducts wars, the Ministry of Truth spreads lies, etc.).  I spent a good portion of today on my phone, on hold, valiantly attempting to resolve an issue. Just what the product in question was is irrelevant, since my point is this: they're all the same. Whether you are trying to contact a municipal utilities company or a Main Street-screwing mega-bank, the chances of talking to an actual flesh-and-blood human being, let alone one that speaks your language, let alone a helpful one, in less than twenty minutes are only slightly better than contracting one of the more obscure diseases on House or catching a music video on MTV.

Firstly, all of them go out of the way to reassure you just how important you are.  As if I needed reminding.  Then, they tell you how vastly they have improved their automated system.  Generally, this seems to mean they have added between three and seventeen options, none of which will apply to what you are calling about.  "For returning your unopened purchase from a foreign country beginning with the letter 'F' but not ending in 'ia,' press 8 now, followed by the pound key, followed by the last four digits of your childhood phone number."  What? And I guess automated answering services must be on the cutting edge of technology, since every single one of them always seems to have recently undergone “improvement.”

Second, and I am not joking, they tell you that "we are experiencing extremely high call volume right now," no matter when you call.  I have tried calling five minutes after the hotlines opened right up to the moment they close, and it never changes.  This means, of course, that the message is a default part of the recording and is in no way affected by actual call volume.  I work in customer service, and that tells me one thing: they don't want you to call.  The message may as well say, "Are you really sure you want to get into this?  Don't you have anything better to do with your valuable time?  Why don't you just hang up the phone, accept the status quo, and continue to take it up the tail-pipe from our company, because it's easier than wading through the Nine Levels of Call Center Hell to receive frustrating and ambiguous answers from the dubiously-named Steve, whose accent suggests he was born in a country only vaguely acquainted with the idea of a distant nation called 'England,' let alone the language they speak in said mythical land?"

On a similar note, have you ever noticed that when the company calls you, the operator is always an articulate American?  But when you call them, your call is whisked away to East Buddhafuck, Tanzermajikravistan?  I once tried to clarify a charge on my account and ended up being rerouted through every former Soviet satellite and half the Mongol Empire, which has not existed for centuries.  I am all for diversifying the workforce, but I just think it makes sense that, if I select English as my preferred language, that is something I should have in common with the operator to whom I am talking.  Call me a conservative, jingoistic xenophobe if you will (notice how I put links on those words to save you the trouble of looking them up?  That's the kind of guy I am).

And, at the risk of sounding like Jerry Seinfeld, what's the deal with the music when you're put on hold?  Not only is it recycled elevator Muzak from 1988, it sounds like it's being played on a 1950's record player through the sound system of a dishwasher.  I think our audio technology has progressed beyond this point.  How difficult is it to play some Pure Moods Volume II in crisp Dolby Digital? At the very least, don't interrupt your shitty music every two minutes to tell me I am on the verge of speaking with a human person. Allow me the time to figure out whether I am listening to simply another crappy synthesized cover of “Baker Street” or the world's worst rendition of Beethoven's Ninth. Either way, I want to revel fully in the excrutiatory auditory experience you have created for me.

Finally, stop trying to upsell me, especially with obviously scripted, long-winded spiels intentionally written to befuddle and capitalize on the unavoidable language barrier.  I had a guy whom I barely understood speak for two minutes straight without coming up for air, ending in, ". . . please say 'yes.'"  Wait, what?  "I am sorry, I did not get that.  Please say, 'Yes,' Mr. Parr."  Seriously?  You think I am going to agree to pay your company more money for some service I don't need just because I am confused?  Fuck you.  And, to make matters worse, he proceeded to repeat the pitch two more times with only the tiniest variation, each time ending with the surefire, don't-take-no-for-an-answer deal-closer.  At last, I had to tell him in no uncertain terms that, while I had no idea what he was talking about, I strongly suspected he was trying to trick me into assenting to some superfluous program, and that if he did not stop all such shystering, I would simply cancel altogether.  Cue obviously scripted, long-winded apology the guy has been forced to memorize for just such an occasion.

In short, I am now seriously considering using homing pigeons as my primary means of correspondence with any and all corporations that are after my money.  The least I can do is send something to shit on them in return for all of their gracious "service."

UPDATE: Oh, yeah, and one more thing: what is the point of voice-recognition software when it can't recognize my voice?  No matter how clearly I enunciate, the program can never understand what I'm saying.  I say, "Returns," and it replies, "Okay, billing."  WTF?  Perhaps I speak in such an alien timbre that human computers are not yet advanced enough to comprehend me.

Notable Quotables

Actual quotes from actual customers this week:

"Is your ice tea ice tea-y?  You know how some ice teas really taste like tea?"

****

"These fries taste like potatoes."

****

. . . and one from a coworker consoling me when I got an undesirable table of people:

"Dude, getting that kind of table is like having a family member die, one you like."

Random Thoughts

I refuse to believe Shaq is capable of texting.

Why didn't Anderson Cooper just reveal his wings and fly away from the unruly protesters?

Toe-socks are weird.

What is the purpose of insulated, wintertime Crocs?

Simple reckless, stupid driving is responsible for far more accidents than drunk driving, yet is not punished nearly as severely in most cases.

Snakes as pets: just moving decor.

Chris Cornell should not cover Michael Jackson, ever, yet he has.

It would be worth the loss of all the good things from the 80s to get rid of all the bad stuff from the 80s.  Let's excise that decade from history.

Nirvana is overrated.

So are the Beatles.  Yes, I said it.

Signs of the Apocalypse

If you have recently turned on your television, you may have noticed some channels are different than others.  While some offer riveting, thoughtful commentary on current events (Fox News), and others quality, abuse-themed drama (Lifetime), a few are labeled educational.  Ostensibly, this means they are intended to supply some type of information that is, theoretically, more useful than the top stories on Headline News.  Back in the day, such channels as The Learning Channel (TLC, to the acronym-savvy), Discover, and the History Channel were about, oddly enough, learning, discovering, and history, respectively.  They are still not to be confused with, say, ESPN or the Playboy Channel (both arguably more illuminating than PBS), but these channels have turned to covering things that, while technically information, can hardly be construed as education.

However, I am learning things about America, things that I suspected, yet did not necessarily want to know.

Toddlers & Tiaras is a perfect case in point.  For those not in the know, this is a show about the World's Creepiest Phenomenon: child beauty pageants.  Little girls from age diapered to five are encouraged to flaunt their bodies for the benefit of onlookers.  Let me just say this: weird as the family/friends of the contestants may be, the random strangers who show up for the pageant are, without a doubt, the sleaziest sickos to walk the earth, just a hop, skip, and jump above playground-oglers.  I feel like, if anything, this show should be a new version of “To Catch a Predator,” in which a a false kiddy pageant is announced, then anyone who shows up is cornered, interrogated, and tased for the good of society. How does this sort of thing go on?  Aren't there entire organizations of self-righteous busybodies protesting grownup beauty pageants of willing girls? How is this not a form of sexual exploitation? It's basically softcore child pornography. These adorable tots are being fitted with false teeth, lubed up, and tossed in a microwave to achieve a Barbie level of artificiality that makes the women on Jersey Shore look like au natural beauties. On a toddler, this has the unsettling additional effect of turning them into animate dolls. I have seen Chucky – I know what happens when dolls come to life, and it's nothing like Toy Story. You have to decapitate the fuckers, Highlander-style. And, all questions of latent pedophilia aside, has anyone considered what this shit does psychologically to the child? Not only are they being told to “grow up” at an absurdly premature stage, most of these girls are turned into vile, bitchy, Pixie Stix-snorting prima donnas who will end up in a ditch, a pregnant runaway shelter, a brothel, rehab, or a permanent drug-induced stupor by age thirteen. All so their sad, obese parents can live vicariously through them. Guess who's not getting a “World's Best Mom” coffee mug this Mother's Day?

Then there's A&E, which, I will grant, does not claim to be educational, but it's not precisely what I would call artistic or entertaining (except, perhaps, in the morbid sense that a car-wreck is entertaining). Take Heavy, for example. This is one of dozens of obesity-based shows on the air, except this one makes no pretense that the fatties in question are even trying to lose weight. Instead, it centers on overweight couples who bemoan the cruelty of their unalterable fate. Or something like that. Because we all know that tipping the scales at 700 pounds is the sole result of an uncontrollable genetic glandular disorder. One of the couples was having difficulty conceiving a child. First of all, yuck. Second, how is this a mystery to them? Physics alone dictate this should be damn near impossible, even assuming they can locate and identify the correct crevice for penetration. And it goes without saying that fat, lazy men produce fat, lazy sperm. They give up less than a quarter of the way up the birth canal, content to wait for the miracle of artificial insemination to do the work for them. Either that, or the pudgy little swimmers die of exertion well before sighting the fabled promised land. Seriously, hearing these people talk about intercourse is about as comfortable as dissecting your parents' sex life in depth.

So, in summary, the one thing I have truly learned from watching TV is this: I am and will always be a lot better than the average American. Ultimately, I think that is such programming's purpose. And if, Oprah forbid, I should ever sink to such levels, I can always pitch a TV show and cash in on my freakish character flaws.