I really don’t like typing these, but it’s partial therapy and after repeated and prolonged insults, I occasionally give something back to companies with crap service. Trust me, I don’t enjoy it. I’m not one of these muck dwelling Yelp reviewers that tries to ruin a business because they had butter instead of “I can’t believe it’s not butter!” I, in my own world of employment, had a customer go online and trash my company…because we had sales. Disclaimer aside, here goes.
We moved into a new house just over a year ago and got a home warranty for a year. The day we were moving in the former owner told us the fridge quit working right – no ice. We called our providers, HSA Home Warranty. They said it was covered and sent a tech out. After providing the rep with our make, model and serial number, which wasn’t easy to get, they sent a repairman – who didn’t work on our fridge. It was this crazy foreign knock off brand called “GE.” He did find that not only was the ice maker not working, the temps were not holding in the fridge and we would start losing food. Another week, same exact scenario. They sent another guy, didn’t work on GE. Third week, they sent someone who could LOOK UP THE ERROR CODES BUT NOT FIX IT. Well, now we are flying! I finally had enough and swapped it with our old fridge, which we had at the old house. I called again about my fourth appointment, all of which, mind you, required my wife or myself to call off work or change our schedule.
Call went like this. “Just letting you know the fridge got moved five miles away, so he can fix it there.” “Sir, we can’t fix it at another address.” “It’s the same fridge, you didn’t fix with three other guys and it’s been broken at this point for over four weeks. I’m not moving a faulty fridge back yet again with me and my dad and breaking my back. You can have it fixed there and I’ll move it when it works.” Rep: “Sir, by contract, we only work on the site of the home.” Me: “Well, you haven’t worked at all. You can’t even find someone to fix a GE in the 15th largest city in the US and I’m losing food. I think as a courtesy, you can make it happen, since this has dragged out.” Rep: “Only if you move it back.”
So I paid out of pocket to repair it because that was better than moving a fridge in December with only me and my senior citizen father. I then had another issue where they would not pay up on a warranty claim because I had another contractor look at something before they were notified. They refused to take my call and made me email a robo-email address that wouldn’t take replies. My hate went from simmering to fully cooked. The coverage finally expired, but not without them emailing me bimonthly, mailing me a flyer every three weeks, and recently, calling my cell while at work to get me to renew this fine warranty that covers, pays for and fixes nothing.
I finally called back after work and selected the correct department. I told the lady I wanted the renewal department. “They don’t take calls.” Me: “I was given this number.” “Well, they don’t have a number.” Me: “I was given this number to call back.” “I’m in sales, I handle that.” Me: “Well, can you or anyone there take me off the call list?” “No, there’s no way to do that.” Me: “So you guys just call me for a year, decade, rest of my life?” “I guess I can take some notes.” Me: “While, you are at it, let me tell you why I’m not renewing.” I dictated to her the multitudinous complaints and realized she didn’t even have my account pulled up, so it was all for naught. As I explained what happened, she interrupted me several times and told me how I violated the policy by moving the fridge. Me: “Well, when my food started spoiling, I really didn’t care about your policy.” “Well, that’s the rules, so it’s on you.” She then did the same thing explaining how I was wrong on the second claim for a technicality. Me: “Well, I called someone else first because you sent these dummies that couldn’t even fix the problem – which means you don’t know how to hire contractors, which is your whole job.” She then told me she would see if anyone could take me off the call list, but probably not.
So, after all that, I have another way to maybe get off your call list. Go burn in hell, HSA Home Warranty. You didn’t fix the easiest of issues, made me move a fridge in the winter and pay for the repairs myself because I had the audacity to want a working appliance that was fully covered under your policy, and you hit me on a technicality because I didn’t have faith you would fix anything with your stellar track record of whipping darts in a pitch black room, hoping you would hit the board. I was going to let it all go, but you then chastised me when I called to say, “Stop calling me.” So go ahead and waste your stamps, time and money, I’ll never use you, recommend you, hire you and will, like in this blog, make sure my circle knows the same. Want to take me off your damn call list now?
This past weekend, my wife and daughter revisited the Wilds, a nature reserve, which is in Muskingum County, Ohio, where I grew up of all places. I had actually never been, which I suppose is like a New Yorker never having been to the Statue of Liberty. It was just so close I never got around to it. Plus, with so much else to do in Zanesville, who has the time? (aka drink Busch Light, play drinking games, etc.)
Of course the one weekend we chose to go the temperature dropped 20 degrees and the wind was howling like we were north of the wall in Winterfell. It’s an open air bus tour that lasts several hours, so that would turn out great. It is really pretty amazing, they have cheetahs, giraffes (who were put away for winter – I really don’t know where in the hell you stuff a giraffe, but whatever) and rhinos. They even had this thing.
Above is a Sichuan Takin, which I thought sounded like “Schezuan Taco” because I was hungry. I never did get any tacos, so it was very disappointing. There was an old one missing an eye with a broken horn from fighting, so I liked the Taco thing.
We also had a dumb camel (thumbs down from the ball jostling ride at the zoo earlier this year) and an even dumber ostrich approach the bus. This thing kept pecking the bus bolts on the side, ramming its dumb face into the metal over and over. I was ready to punch it if it tried to peck my daughter. That’s actually how I spent half the time, thinking about punching the animals if they got frisky.
My wife then gave her coat to our daughter as the temps dropped and wouldn’t take mine, so I looked like an ass. Then she finally took my coat and I wished I looked like an ass. I literally tucked my arms into my shirt like a straightjacket, so you will see no pictures from the last 30 minutes of the Artic Express bus tour. I would give this place four of five stars – no alcohol on the bus or I would give it five stars. Six if they let me wrestle a cheetah.
My wife secured tickets to see Ohio State football last weekend. The last time we ventured onto campus, someone keyed her car, so we decided to Uber. Of course, she had to make a quick run to Target with my daughter first, which meant 3 hours, so I assumed we would completely miss the game. That place is a black hole.
We did get there, just a hair late, and trekked up the stairs. I’m either way out of shape or 112 steps is a bit much. We got to our seat just in time (another 88 steps to get seated) for a Buckeye TD. I gathered my air in the mountainous altitude, then went to find my wife a drink and some food. She doesn’t drink beer, so I had to go all the way to the ground floor again, but only found spiked seltzer and didn’t want her to divorce me, so I didn’t buy it. Back up the stairs. My fat thighs barely fit in my pants now anyways, might as well be muscle.
I jumped in the next line with a soft pretzel and of course, I picked the line with the oldest guy to have ever worked the line. He also had molasses on his shoes or something. 23 minutes later, I got a pretzel. DURING THE GAME. It’s not like I went at halftime and complained. There was a TV in the line, but of course, another TD while I was paying.
I went back up and caught about five minutes before half. At that point, I figured it was easier to piss off the top of the stadium rather than venture back down the stairs. Oh and someone had kicked over my beer when I was gone, even though I had it placed all the way back. My first instinct was to suck the beer off the pavement since it was $8, but I held back, as I was too tired to stoop over. I figure it would be easier to kill and eat another fan to survive rather than go down and wait in the bratwurst line, so at least I’m picking up survival skills.
I hate mosquitoes, aka, Nature’s Ramsay Boltons. The bug version of Jared from Subway. The six legged guy who drinks all your beer when you’re not looking, aka Chris Coen 1998-2004. They are the WORST. I googled mosquitoes for a picture, first story – 7 year old Ohio boy gets encephalitis from a damn mos…flying asshole bug. They don’t deserve a name. Dickbag with wings that bites.
I tried to find a way to avoid the hovering colostomy bags. The advice from the dumb interwebs I got was to not “swat or provoke” them. WHAT? Hey Siri, how do I deal with a burglar? “Let them take your shit.” Well, that was useless. So I decided to tell mos…pimples inside your ear with wings and long biting ugly faces…things I like more than them.
Things I like more than you.
Getting kicked in the balls by my kids. Getting headbutted in the balls by my dog. Getting my balls ripped off in a fly fishing accident. Getting burned with a cigarette. Accidentally drinking an ashcan at a party. Accidentally drinking a spitter at a party. Having my wife tell me “she has a project in mind” for the house. Getting fired. Getting set on fire. Getting set on fire after being fired. Running out of beer and being too drunk to get more. Dieting. Telemarketing calls. Political telemarketing calls. Seeing people’s really smart political posts on Facebook every six minutes. Putting pets down. Taking the day off work and find out they got free pizza. Hangovers. Food poisoning. Being sick where I can’t breathe through my nose. Finding out I’m too fat for my pants and I either have to not eat for three days or buy new pants. Back hair. Ass hair. My eyebrow hair after 35. Hemorrhoids. Being pulled over. When the cat brings a live bird in the house. When that bird is a Jehovah’s Witness. Getting my debit card stolen. Talking to strangers about the weather. Cleaning up puke and/or shit. Flies, maggots, spiders, rabid wolverines, dragons, or politicians. Gluten free stuff. Diary free ice cream. Communists…barely. And lastly, finding hair in my food.
That’s all I have for now, mos…dog shit on my shoe of the insect world. Burn in hell, come back to life and burn again. I hate you.
A couple things this week sparked my memories of the 90’s. I started the 90’s in middle school and ended them in college with Y2K. It was a truly amazing decade, except, looking back, the following.
The 90’s started off great for music and then turned into the worst steaming pile of garbage ever created. Rap and Grunge exploded, R&B was at an apex, Metal was redefined and even Country got huge with popular America for the first time. Then everyone just gave up in the mid 90’s. Boy bands and jailbait girls took over pop, rappers got killed, heroin and suicide took out Grunge and rock was taken over by Creed and Limp Bizkit. When I was in college, I could stick my head out the door and hear five different Dave Matthews Band CD’s going at once. It’s like someone in 1997 got a voodoo doll for good music and set it on fire.
Internet? Sort of. The internet was here!…until your sister picked up the phone. Good bye internet!
Pagers. Before cell phones, I got a pager. Three scenarios. My buddy paged me at my parents’ house instead of calling me…I called him back in an unnecessary move. Other one, my jerk friends would text me a girls’ number, which I would awkwardly call and realize I got pager trolled. Or lastly, mom paged me to call in, which meant party over. Pagers sucked.
CD player destroyed CD’s for every pothole. I had to buy the same CD’s two and three times. Also, almost everyone I know got a CD stuck in their player for weeks. I had Charlie Daniels Greatest Hits stuck in mine and I nearly went to therapy. Four weeks later, I got it out and almost had Charlie Daniels withdrawal like a Stockholm syndrome sufferer. I almost tossed it back in out of habit.
Butt cut. About 3/4 of the guys I hung out with had a butt cut. Mine was a shortened version, but with bangs blended in. Plus the shaved head with bangs only is the worst guys’ hairstyle of the last 50 years, hands down. It looked like your head was set on fire and only the bangs made it out alive.
It wasn’t all bad, to give a little hope to everyone that lived through that time. No social media meant my generation escaped cataloged embarrassment excepting disposable cameras and we didn’t get political posts from sort of friends of friends every five minutes. No one texted – texting has its place, but I’ve literally seen entire tables of people on their phones not talking to each other. Heroin wasn’t destroying every town under 40,000 people in America. They invented the 30 pack of beer. I’ll stop there, that really was the best achievement of the 90’s, sorry internet, here’s your runner up trophy.
We started potty training a while back, then both kids got ear infections, so that set us back. Potty training stinks. Starting over is even worse. We are doing pretty good on the tinkles but my kid like to slam the door for #2 and be alone. While I appreciate this normally, it’s touch to train when you have a toddler screaming at you and pushing you out of the playroom at full strength while you’re trying to convince them to sit on the potty.
Of course, the other fun side effect is that my daughter is all access all the time. I was taking a leak and she came in, hovered her face about a half inch from my stream and watched the result. She looked back at me, “Dada’s pooping!” “Um. That’s not poop, peanut.” “Dada’s pooping! That’s Dada’s butt!” I had to correct her, but I realized I hadn’t thought out what the accepted term was for Dada’s tallywacker. I tried to think like a toddler, which is not as hard I thought normally, except for the penis factor. “That’s Dada’s…wee wee.” She laughed, “That’s Dada’s butt.” My wife yelled from the other room, “Wee wee? Just call it a penis.” Well this is a blast and all, how about I finish the stream before we dive into this fully? I’m an inch from peeing on my kid and have the focus of an amateur bomb technician on his first run. Let’s figure out male anatomy slang maybe in a minute?