Y'know, usually our callers are polite, well-mannered and even happy, but today the suckiness is out in full force. Maybe it's the weather, or maybe they're just pissed that their brats are home all day now.
Mr. Impatient
Me: "Hm. Alright, sir, I think we should try running though a few things to see if.."
SC: "Nonsense. I have a perfectly regular system with everything set to standard. I just want you to fix this!"
Me: *pause* "Well..."
SC: "Well, WHAT? Are you gonna fix it or not?"
Me: "Actually, sir, if you're not willing to let me guide you through our standard troubleshooting procedure, there's not much I can do."
SC: "So you're not gonna fix it. FINE! I'll figure something out on my own, then!"
Me: "Alright." *hangs up*
Well, excuse me, Mr. Almighty Grand Bobwizard of Imaginary Techieness and The Darts of The Overgrown Hot Air Numbskull, but if you won't even think about the option of the problem being on your end, then there's nothing I can do. Go away, have a nice night and I hope the Boogyman eats you in the morning. I'd wish for zombies, but they'd starve to death trying to find your brain.
I hope he's not a mailman...
Received in an e-mail:
A: You answered your own question.
B: ASK THE PEOPLE WHO MADE THE RULE!
You are indeed a rare and pitiful breed, my friend. Go whap yourself directly in the face with the complete Encyclopedia Britannica a few hundred times, take two Tylenol and go to sleep. I'm sure you'll feel better in the morning.
Put the bottle DOWN!
SC: Iiii can't open my... docshumensh on [Site]. I gesh schis winshow that... *remainder of sentence vanishes in a drunken murmur*
For the love of all that is good and holy, if you can't stay sober long enough to make a 7-minute phone call, send a mail instead. And hang up the friggin' phone, lady, I can smell the booze on your breath through the phone lines >.<
Mr. Impatient
Me: "Hm. Alright, sir, I think we should try running though a few things to see if.."
SC: "Nonsense. I have a perfectly regular system with everything set to standard. I just want you to fix this!"
Me: *pause* "Well..."
SC: "Well, WHAT? Are you gonna fix it or not?"
Me: "Actually, sir, if you're not willing to let me guide you through our standard troubleshooting procedure, there's not much I can do."
SC: "So you're not gonna fix it. FINE! I'll figure something out on my own, then!"
Me: "Alright." *hangs up*
Well, excuse me, Mr. Almighty Grand Bobwizard of Imaginary Techieness and The Darts of The Overgrown Hot Air Numbskull, but if you won't even think about the option of the problem being on your end, then there's nothing I can do. Go away, have a nice night and I hope the Boogyman eats you in the morning. I'd wish for zombies, but they'd starve to death trying to find your brain.
I hope he's not a mailman...
Received in an e-mail:
<snip> Why do I have to log in to [Site] via [Type A Login] to see a certain type of documents just because the sender's union says so?! It's [male cow feces] that [Site] allows this type of [stinky stuff] to go on!</snip>
B: ASK THE PEOPLE WHO MADE THE RULE!
You are indeed a rare and pitiful breed, my friend. Go whap yourself directly in the face with the complete Encyclopedia Britannica a few hundred times, take two Tylenol and go to sleep. I'm sure you'll feel better in the morning.
Put the bottle DOWN!
SC: Iiii can't open my... docshumensh on [Site]. I gesh schis winshow that... *remainder of sentence vanishes in a drunken murmur*
For the love of all that is good and holy, if you can't stay sober long enough to make a 7-minute phone call, send a mail instead. And hang up the friggin' phone, lady, I can smell the booze on your breath through the phone lines >.<


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