Shitty Reviews

A Parody of Reality

Technical Support

Technical support originated in Satan’s asshole, and it damn well hasn’t expanded. Any self-sacrificing American that has sucked up his (there is no “or her” because women don’t know how to use electronics, which includes phones) dignity to subject himself to these mouth-breathers knows what I’m talking about when I say that Hindu McGee needs to shut the fuck up and let me talk to someone named Lenny, Carl, or Alexander. The other night, a message popped up on my computer that said my CPU was abnormally hot, so I took a cold shower with it, scrubbed every inch of it, and tried it again. It wouldn’t turn on! Furious, I called my computer brand’s technical support, and Abdooli Durka answered, spouting something about slushies and BOGO, whatever the fuck that means.

There is something seriously wrong when I call a support line, and the person who answers needs support speaking English. It’s counter-productive. I wound up spending twelve hours on the phone with the guy teaching him the basics of the master race’s language, and now his name is Stuart and he lives in Illinois with no wife, no kids, and an Irish Wolfhound named World Destroyer Kensington, III. My computer still won’t turn on, and this ass-grabber has a better life than I do, even if it isn’t true and he still sleeps in dirt every night, fearing an Egyptian asp is going to ruin his shit, which it will.

Consider your shit ruined, Egypt.

Consider your shit ruined, Egypt.

I tried working for a technical support company once, and I did an amazing job. I was quickly promoted to fired. A typical day went something like this:

Customer: Hello, my computer won’t turn on.
Me: Is it plugged in?

Then the customer hung up and hopefully killed himself, which probably isn’t hard, since he likely forgets how to breathe every few minutes. I almost miss the days when technical support wasn’t done over the phone, but rather in person. Can you imagine how much simpler that would be? If someone came in, sat down a computer, and said it wouldn’t turn on – BAM, that’s because it’s sitting on my desk, jackass, go plug it in somewhere and then promptly swallow your own tongue.

Customer service began in 1547, when Matt Damon decreed that anything with a moving part can be taken back to the creator if it stops working for whatever reason. This is considered the only “wrong” thing Matt Damon has ever done (“wrong” is in quotes because Matt Damon is infallible, which means he technically didn’t do something wrong, we’re just too simple-minded to truly grasp how it was right. Touché, my liege. Touché.) . At the time, I was a watchmaker, because every true man should know how to make a watch. There’re all kinds of badass quotes about watches from Einstein, and that guy was so much of a man that he ejaculated gale force winds and shit thunderstorms.

Ever since the decree, stupid people have been doing stupid things with simple products, and use technical support as an excuse to blame the manufacturer for their inability to use both thumbs at the same time. These are the same assholes that blame fucked up sidewalks for them tripping. Don’t blame the sidewalk because you don’t pay attention, now go home and walk into a glass door like the teat-nibble retard that you are, Forrest.

Run, retard, run – if you don’t trip on your virginity first.

Run, retard, run – if you don’t trip on your virginity first.

Outsourcing has become a horrible problem in America, which is mostly proven by the fact that technical support lines refuse to even hire me at this point. My resume is perfect, considering it is four hundred and eighty nine pages long, and goes over the highlights of my career in very succinct, albeit chronologically-incorrect, manner:

  • The creation of all of mankind, under the tutelage of my one Lord and Savior, Mattimus Damonus.
  • Writing the bible on a chick’s tits.
  • Destroying Pangaea.
  • Smothering a Tyrannosaurus Rex with my balls.
  • Ending world hunger.
  • Restarting world hunger.
  • Giving birth to Joe Brown.
  • Headbutting the ground so hard that a meager crevice is formed, which is later named The Grand Canyon.
  • Working at Publix for two months.
  • Discovering the g-spot.
  • Hiding it from everyone else.
  • Destroying Carthage with my stare.

You would expect that I could effectively get any job I want, from grave digger to Official Annihilator of Asses, but instead I’m writing reviews about technical support, sand, and Nicolas Cage. I was talking to Pillsner because he is the only person I know because everyone else is a figment of my imagination (fuck off, psychology), and he was telling me about this time he drank so much beer that he pissed blood, and the blood turned into a technical support operator for a major mp3 player manufacturer. I called up this company, and I wound up talking to his kidney failure, and he spoke better English than Jihad did, and that pissed me off.

So I call back that computer company, and I tell that guy what’s up, and he’s like “I don’t even know who you’re talking about, this is my first day” or something like that because it was in Arabian, and I got so angry that I flew two planes into the World Trade Center and blamed it on him, and they totally believed me, and now gas is expensive. Talk about shitting on a culture – I managed to crush his smelly country and fuck up our own economy in one swift move, and there’s not a god damn thing anyone can do about it. Except turn back time.

Kevin Spacey turned back time in 1916, because he missed an episode of Jack Shit because no one had televisions back then, and he wound up going back to when I was born to try to kill me. But, since I wasn’t so much born as I exploded out of a womb made of steel, aluminum siding, and rosewood, I kicked him on the taint so hard that he shot back through his portal, and reverted time back to normalcy. Little did I know that time had been altered forever in the future…

Shitty’s gift to humanity with a sharp punt to the taint.

Shitty’s gift to humanity with a sharp punt to the taint.

I don’t give ratings, but if I did, technical support would get one dead baby joke involving pitchforks and/or dinner out of ten dead baby jokes involving pitchforks and/or dinner. These non-English-speaking vinegar baths need to learn the language of their primary customers. Sure, they make sixteen cents an hour, but you have to work for that money, and sitting in a hot, arid room with nothing to eat, drink, or wear (aside from robes, sandals, and turbans; see: terrorist), does not excuse you from your duties as non-Americans helping Americans. Learn the language or learn to fly planes or something.


March 28, 2009 - Posted by | Shitty Reviewer

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