AT&T, I Do Hate Thee

There is a name for my pain, and it is AT&T.

I have been stuck in a downward spiral of ridiculousness for days trying to sort out my account with them. Is it because I'm trying to cure cancer? Negative. Fighting to instill world peace? Not even close. My roommate is moving and I'm trying to take over our existing U-Verse account. One that's already hooked up. Period, end of story. And with this simple action I have started a chain reaction of moronic incompetency that would make George Bush seem a good candidate for degree in rocket science.

Ever since I picked up the phone to call these idiots I have been lied to, cheated on, and told everything was my fault. From the hag that forced us to initially cancel the account and open a new one (in an effort to make a sale) to the manager that lied about my current roommate's password so as to say that was the reason I couldn't switch over, this whole ordeal has been an absolute nightmare. I want to sue them for making me break out. Did they hold an interview one day for the dumbest people on earth and hire them all or what?

AT&T, I hate your guts. I truly wish I was content watching paint peel off my wall so I could avoid you forever but I need my DVR, so I'm stuck with you jerks. I can't wait for you to go out of business one day so I can have my cable back. That is all.

Proof That God (and Birds) Have a Sense Of Humor.

I woke up this morning feeling outstanding.  I got plenty of sleep.  My busy days at work would slow today.  And for once I wasn't sick.  Or hungover.  I vowed that today, nothing was going to alter my sense of euphoria.

Then I got down to the parking lot to start my car.  My little blue hybrid I just washed not 4 days ago.  My lovely little driving machine I enjoy showing off at work because it looks like a Lexus (until a Lexus pulls up).  And wouldn't you know, some thoughtless piece of crap bird had decided to turn it into just that: a piece of crap.

I'm not talking about the occasional plop of dookie that happens to land on the roof of your car.  I'm talking about a full on shit massacre of my poor rear windshield.  Just look!

Worst thing is, it wasn't like that when I went to bed at night.  The little bastard took it upon himself to find my car out of all the others and turn it into a standing portapotty.  I even have a covered carport, so he had to crawl under the roof and unload his nasty ass while sitting down comfortably on my roof, like Michael Moore after 3 burritos.  Sick.

And if that wasn't enough, I was luckly enough to discover a moth carcass so neatly attached to the roof near the driver's side door.  Upon closer inspection you will find it is not really a moth carcass at all, but a dried up turd in the shape of a moth the bird's stomach obviously couldn't digest.  Kinda like corn.

Thus my euphoric mood turned to one of both frustration, disgust and mild hysterics.  I guess it's time to wash the car again...

Ten Things That Need to Retire Before Summer Begins...

Snuggies...for anyone.

Reality shows about realities we don’t care to see.  Like super-bad cake gangstas.

Swiffer commercials about inanimate objects turning into perverts.

Blithe idiocy and flesh colored beards.

Scary movies and shows.

Theft.

Tiger Woods. And his balls.

Going gaga for Lady Gaga when she's clearly cookoo.

Arizona.

Smizing.

Casa Hot Mess

Ok I’m back. Been on a little hiatus fueled by yet another work conference and an unexpected illness.

So where was I all this time? Monterey, California. Beautiful place. Although in my opinion it couldn’t hold a candle to my time in New Orleans.

Why? Number one: it’s freezing there. Think a cross between Alaska and the North Pole. There is a constant biting wind, and it’s constantly biting you right in the face. Number two: not a whole lot to do there. There is only one real club downtown, and it was filled up with pre-pubescent fake-id carrying 21-year-olds before you could say “Jagerbomb.” The food was absolutely outstanding, however.

But my favorite experience of Monterey had to be the crazy excuse for a hotel I was made to stay in! Casa Munras. More like Casa Mocos. Here’s the lowdown on this place:

1. Only the registration area was quaint and styled. The rest of the compound was laid out like an old insane asylum. Very creepy. Weird sections of abandoned building with prominent “Keep Out! Unfit to Inhabit” signs. It felt like a Resident Evil video game.

2. Something was terribly wrong with my bathroom. The toilet required a step-stool for me to reach it. The shower head came all the way to crotch level. Then I realized: they put me in the “special” room. Nice job guys.

3. I had a gorgeous view….of the parking lot. And even that was blocked by an enormous and unnecessary bush.

4. When I went to open the shutters to gain a little more of my bush view, mosquitoes came out. Big, healthy mosquitoes. They were living there more comfortably in this craphole than I was apparently.

5. My television refused to work with the remote. But it would randomly turn on at sporadic intervals during the night. I expected the chick from The Ring to emerge and turn me into a pile of green goo at any moment.

6. The heater was not only archaic, but possessed. It was one of those stupid boxes that rests in the wall on the floor, offering warmth to a circumference of about 1 foot. I used the dial to crank that bitch all the way up to 80 (remember, I was in Alaska). Then every time the heater kicked on the dial screamed. Not a low whine, I mean the painful howl of a cat being tossed in a blender or Paula Abdul when she runs out of painkillers. A very comforting sound at 3am.

The only plus was it was situated about .5 miles from the actual conference. Yes, I had to walk miles every day to go to work. But at least no one else could see where I was staying. Although I’m pretty sure they could vaguely hear the howl of Paula Abdul, somewhere in the distance….

Yeah, here's the promise on the website.....
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
Here's what you really get.  At no additional charge!

Thank You Letter Thursday

Alright, so all my fellow bloggers have a little segment once a week and I’m starting to feel a little left out. Or lame. Or both.

So in the spirit of conformity I would like to start my own: Thank You Letter Thursday. Based on the impeccable and poised writing style of Jimmy Fallon on Late Night, I would like to send thank you letters to some of my favorite annoyances. This week is dedicated to airlines, due to all the travel I’m experiencing.

Thank you, Terror Threat Alert System. Your pink hearts, orange stars, yellow moons system works wonders. You forgot purple, which stands for no-one-gives-a-shit-because-we-all-wonder-how-this-benefits-us-at-all.

Thank you, TSA, for doing such a thorough job of checking bags that you allowed me to get through with the can of mace I forgot in my purse. I guess it’s more important that my flip-flops be scanned thoroughly, right? See Terror Threat Alert System color purple.

Thank you, creepy steward guy on the plane, for leering at me and then asking where the “pretty” friend I came on the plane with was. Rude that you don’t think I’m pretty, even rudder for not realizing I came on the plane alone. Now I’m not only not pretty but slightly invisible.

Thank you, stewardesses, for adamantly insisting I turn off my iPod before we take off.  Because the little bit of power put off by it will surely cause the plane to fall from the sky.

Thank you, outhouse plane lavatory, for allowing me something to ponder during my otherwise boring flight. Really, where does all that stuff go?

Thank you, fasten seatbelt sign, for always coming on right as I need to get up and pee.

Thank you, TV in the back of each airplane seat, for taunting and teasing me the entire 4-hour flight with promises of good shows I could be watching were I not a cheap bastard refusing to pay you $6 with the easy swipe of my debit card.

Thank you, SkyMall Magazine, for showing me all sorts of neat and nifty contraptions I dream of owning. Like a constipated owl figurine fan for $80.

Thank you, Continental Airlines, for possessing the genius to schedule my connection flights only 30 minutes apart. And for running late on take-off. And for taxing forever once we arrived. AND for parking the plane in gate C-34 when my connection flight, now leaving in 5 minutes, is in gate E-15. Running across the airport with a carry-on bag after my hog fest in New Orleans was exactly what I was looking for.

Thank you, mini bottles of Jack Daniels on the plane. No really, thank you.