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Tall, Frosty Glass of Rage-ahol by Ray Printer Friendly

Hey, kids. It’s been awhile since I’ve ranted about my job, so I guess we’re about due. It’s not my fault that I have to complain about just how stupid customers are, man. They walk in, they act like they do, and they’re practically begging to be included in some belligerent web post, you know?

Sometimes when I’m bitching to Trey about how stupid people are, he’ll throw in something like, “Yeah, man, but dealing with customer service people is pretty ridiculous, too.” And I agree. But see, that’s my job, you know? I get paid to get screamed at, and filter out the bullshit. “I bought this thing two years ago, and I just opened it yesterday, but it doesn’t work, so I want my money back.” No, man. No way. Because that gets me screamed at by the people that pay me.

As a customer, you can sit around and get all angry and yell and cry or whatever. And that sucks for me, because I have to listen to you. But if I do something wrong, I get the same stuff from my bosses…the difference being that when everything is said and done, they can fire me, where as you can’t. Unless you’re one of my bosses, in which case, get the hell out of here—this is Ray time.

Would I want to be a customer dealing with me? Yeah, man, sure. Because if you’re following all the rules, there’s no problem. You buy something, you don’t like it, you bring it back, I’ll look at it and go, “Nobody around here is going to like this, but whatever—it’s within the guidelines.” And I do the return. And then some manager will come up to me, hollering about why did I do that return, and I explain everything, and it’s like, “Damn…too bad.”

But walk up to me with a sixteen pound camcorder battery that was made around the same time that Atari hit the market, and I’m not going to return it, no matter how much you yell. Piss off.

I think customer service could be greatly improved if we just ditched the whole pseudo-polite thing we’ve got going on. Like this:

“I want to return this.”

“You’re outside the return policy.”

“I want to return it, anyways.”

“Piss off.”

“You just lost yourself a customer, buddy!”

“Did you not hear me? I said piss off.”

“Get me your manager!”

And then you slam the phone into their face. Yep, anyone who demands to speak to a manager, you just break the phone over their face. Is it wrong to admit that I have wet dreams like that?

Yeah, I can see it from the customer’s perspective, but whatever. You know how much trouble I have when I have to go to customer service at another store? None, that’s how much. Because I always follow the rules. You read your receipt, you check out the return policy, and if the crap you bought doesn’t work, you take it back within the set time. It’s not that hard, people. And, yeah, sometimes stuff breaks, even if you've only had it for eight months--welcome to real life, where things don't always go your way. Besides, you shouldn't be watching so much TV anyways. I have never in my life purchased a deffective book.

Enough about that, though.

Oh, wait—one more thing. I am not your babysitter. I had this lady once, she comes in, all bitchy and annoying, rude as hell without any reason. “I want to return this,” she says, and she slams some stupid electronic device down on the corner and then looks away, like it was too painful to even contemplate looking at me.

“Do you have your receipt?” I ask her.

“No.” The pitch of her voice goes up at the end, like a valley chick or whatever, and I wanted to punch her in the neck. (A quick side note: I was raised to believe that you don't ever hit a woman, but once you walk up to that counter, you cease being anything except a customer, and you’re usually a customer I wish bad things would happen to)

I looked through the computer for any record of her purchase, and then I told her that I couldn’t do the return because I couldn’t find anything that said she had purchased it from the corporate pimp I whore for.

The thing is, I can look up a purchase if you use a credit card, if you leave your phone number, or if you write a check. (Another quick aside: when dealing with retail stores, never, never, never call up and identify yourself by name or by what you bought and expect anyone to know who you are—it’s a waste of time, and it makes you look like a complete idiot asshole)

I explained all this to her, and she wigged out. “So I’m being punished for paying with cash?” She screamed at me.

“I don’t feel like I’m punishing you,” I tell her, because I like to point out how ridiculous customers sound, in a subtle kind of way.

She screamed at me for a while, doing her best to turn me into a homosexual by making me hate all women in general, and then she goes, “How do you expect people to do returns, if these are the kinds of records you keep?”

“We give out little pieces of paper that even an infant could hold onto for three days without losing. It’s called a receipt. Next in line!”

Yeah, man, sometimes I’m a jerk. There’s a good chance that I always have been. But there’s also a good chance that working customer service ruined me.

Because customers are also jerks.

You know those people that run around, doing missionary work, helping people, working in underdeveloped countries, all that crap? Or those people who want to save the planet, recycle, whatever? I think that all of those people should have to work customer service for awhile. Like if you want to join Greenpeace, you have to serve three months at a customer service counter. You want to join the Peace Corps, you do a year. And then if you still want to save the planet, if you still want to help people, feel free.

Right after you do your time in a mental facility.

Because after you work customer service for awhile, the only people you want to help are the bus drivers, and that’s only because you want them to run over everyone else. After you work customer service, you don’t care about saving the planet. You want it to die a horrible death as punishment for being populated by such a bunch of morons.

People are bad, man. Oh, sure, not all of them, but most of them. Go watch Batman. The one that caused such a stir back in the day, where Michael Keaton was rocking the suit and Jack was rocking the Joker smile. There’s a part where Lando Calrissian is talking about how he’s going to make Gotham City a safe place for decent people to live again. And The Joker, he goes, “Decent people shouldn’t live here—they’d be happier somewhere else.” Something like that. Best line ever.

And that’s how I feel about our planet. The good people, it’s time for them to get in a spaceship and go somewhere else, because the jerk-ass idiots have pretty much ruined things.

This is not a happy place.

Sweet dreams, kids.


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