Archive for October, 2006

The Great Rebate Debate. Er. Wow, this title sucks.

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on October 13, 2006 @ 8:37 am
in bitches, money and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 21 Comments

In March of this year I qualified for a new cellulating automophone so we went to the Verizon store near our house (on Valentine’s day, no less) and got me a 40 dollar phone and a 30 dollar rebate. Ten bucks for a phone ain’t bad. It’s as cheap as an indiscriminate sex act in the District, and it won’t give you herpes. Plus, you can’t send text messages on a hooker. I mean, I guess you could pay 10 bucks to write, “LOL OMFG ROFLMAO 666 SATAN MURDER HOTDOG” on her ass and then pay another 5 bucks to have her go over to your friend’s house and show your friend her ass, but that’s way too much work, and it only costs 10 cents on my phone.

Anyway, I sent in the rebate the next day and completely forgot about it until I got a postcard in the mail from rebateshq.com that I had “submitted the maximum number of rebate claims per household”. So I called up those fuckers and asked to know what the problem was. So to search for my information they asked for my phone number. I gave it to them, they found my rebate and said they had no idea what the problem was. They said they would resubmit it and I could check the status online in 7 to 10 business days. That was March 22.

April 6
Me: [after calling the same number as last time and having no option to talk to an operator I just mashed buttons until someone answered] Hi, I wanted to talk to someone about my rebate status.
Them: Okay, we’ll look it up. What’s the serial code?
Me: Serial code? All they needed last time was my phone number.
Them: No, we can’t look anything up by phone number.
Me: Oooookaaaaay. Here’s the serial code….
Them: Thanks…. Okay, well there seems to be some sort of problem with your rebate. I’ll submit it. Check online in 7 to 10 business days. -click-
Me: Sons of bitches!

May 23
Me: [more button mashing] Hello. I need you to get me my rebate.
Them: Okay. What’s your address?
Me: What the hell? My address? You don’t need my phone number or serial code or something?
Them: No sir. We can’t look up anything by your phone number, and I have no idea what a serial code is.
Me: Fine, whatever. Here’s my address…
Them: Thank you. Okay. There’s nothing in the system under that address.
Me: Okay. Can you search by my name or something?
Them: Maybe.
Me: Okay, it should be under Bertram Farnswoggle.
Them: Yeah, it’s not in here. Let me transfer you to my manager.
Me: [thinking] Fucking finally.
Them: Okay sir I’d be happy to help you. Phone number please.
Me: I was just told you can’t search by phone number.
Them: Well, you must be mistaken, it’s the only way we can search for anything.
Me: [sigh] …
Them: Thank you. Okay, there seems to be something wrong with your refund, I’ll submit it for processing. Check our website in 7 to 10 days. -click-
Me: Motherfuckers!

June 7
Me: [button mashing] Hi. Can I talk to your manager.
Them: Hold on.
Me: Hi. I want my refund.
Them: Okay. What’s your social security number?
Me: You’ve got to be joking.
Them: No sir, it’s the only way we can look up your refund.
Me: Well, you’ve bungled my refund since February, that was five months ago, there’s no way I’m giving you my social security number. You’ll have to use another way to look up my info.
Them: Well, I guess I could use your phone number.
Me: Okay, fine, whatever…
Them: Well, there’s nothing in here for that account.
Me: What?
Them: Your refund has been deleted because you don’t qualify.
Me: What? How would I not qualify?
Them: Because you applied for the refund twice.
Me: How am I supposed to apply for the refund twice? I had to cut the top off of the box that my phone came in to send it to you. I never got ANY refund. I want the refund I applied for. Now.
Them: Okay, we’ll have to submit this to Special Claims then.
Me: Great. Whatever. Can you transfer me to them?
Them: No.
Me: Why not?
Them: Because we don’t have phone numbers for them. They work somewhere else. It’s all computer generated.
Me: This is insane.
Them: Check our website in 7 to 10 business days for your refund status. -click-
Me: Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Shit!

August 21
Me: [button mashing] I want my refund. Now.
Them: Okay, I just need to look up your account. I can use your phone number, address, serial code, or name and zipcode.
Me: [flabbergasted] Uh, okay. Here’s my phone number.
Them: Alright sir, I’m just reviewing your account, hold on one second.
Me: Okay… thanks.
Them: Well, I have no idea what’s going on here. It looks like your account should have been processed in March. I’m going to call Special Claims right now, please hold.
Me: Okay. Thanks!
Them: [a minute later] Okay, Special Claims will process your rebate today. You should get your check in 6 to 8 weeks, I’m sorry for any inconvineince. You can check your status online in 7 to 10 business days…
Me: Wait! Don’t hang up!
Them: I wasn’t going to hang up sir, I wanted to ask you if you had any more questions or if there was anything else I could do.
Me: Um, I think that’s it actually.
Them: Okay. Well, call back and ask for Robin if you have any more trouble.
Me: Thank you!

So today I finally got my rebate check, and I’m going to take it to the bank during my lunch break. I’m almost positive that the check is going to bounce, but there’s a tiny little piece of hope inside of me that has yet to be violated by those fuckers at rebateshq.com, so we’ll see if I finally get my 30 fucking dollars, or if my love of mankind becomes a stinking balck void from which no light can escape.

Eric Clapton

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on October 11, 2006 @ 11:00 am
in food and music
. 18 Comments

Last night I went with a neighbor to see the Eric Clapton show at the Verizon Center in DC. After arriving in the armpit of Maryland*, we decided to immerse ourselves in the vast and varied cultural hotspots of DC and so we dared to try a tiny little restaurant I bet none of you have ever heard of- Fuddruckers. We would have gone to the other off-the-wall place nearby, but a name like Ruby Tuesdays sounds so pomo and overpriced.

The show started with the Robert Cray band, who were pretty good. They got the crowd moving, and for the few songs where they really jammed, they were fabulous.

Eric Clapton was great. It really took seeing him live to understand why everybody is so on his nuts. I wouldn’t exactly say that he’s a god, but the man tears the shit out of the guitar. He played a whole bunch of blues stuff, as well as his hits, Cocaine, I Shot the Sheriff, Wonderful Tonight, After Midnight, Layla, etc. No, he didn’t play Tears in Heaven. Why should he play Tears in Heaven? Just because you think it’s a good song doesn’t mean he has to trot out the death of his kid for your entertainment every time you assholes show up. Maybe I should kill YOUR kids and then force you to write a song about it and then make you play it whenever I say so. Oh, what’s that? That would be insensitive and rude? Yeah, it would, so stop drunkenly screaming to hear Tears in Heaven you fucking douche.

I digress. One of the things I thought was really cool about the show was how long Clapton let his band show-off. Every number allowed at least one, if not all, band members to solo for a minute or two. Clapton probably spent about 50% of the time in the spotlight, and the rest of the band took the other 50%. Yeah, it’s not like they all spent the same amount of time in the spotlight, but it was Eric Clapton’s show after all. He really spread the wealth around though.

Because of this the crowd really got to see one performer shine, and that was his slide guitarist, Derek Trucks. How shall I put this? Trucks didn’t so much play the guitar as much as he seduced the fucking music out of it. I was absolutely gobsmacked at how well this guy could play. Each jam that he finished I had my mind completely and utterly blown, and I was neither high, nor drunk (though I had been licking toads). The best part? He’s as old as I am. That fucker is only 26 and he was at times out-playing Eric muhfuhn Clapton.

For the encore they ended with the classic blues classic (yes, I did that on purpose) Crossroads by Robert Johnson. You’ve probably heard it before as it’s been done by Clapton (duh), Skynyrd, BB King, etc. It’s the quintessential blues number, and they fucking nailed it. I couldn’t have been happier. But then, BAM, second encore, Clapton comes out with an acoustic and plays Tears in Heaven.

No, not really, you insensitive fuckwit.

*Look at a map of Maryland. The center part of the state, just to the west of the bay, is the torso. The arm extends west toward Cumberland and Oakland, and DC is in the armpit. I guess this technically makes Harrisburg, PA the head, and the penninsula on the east side of the bay in Virginia the giant weiner of the east coast.

You. Yes you. I need your help. Hey. Hey! Get back here! The porn can wait!

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on October 9, 2006 @ 1:21 pm
in food, meta blogging and nog
. 22 Comments

I wouldn’t normally do this, but I seriously need your help. The eggnog season is almost upon us, and I want you to direct me to any and all eggnog products you might happen upon. Eggnog, fakenog, eggnog candies, eggnog recipies, eggnog personal lubricants, whatever, I want to hear about it. If you were really nice you would mail it to me, but let’s be honest 1) you people are pretty much the dregs of society, and general all-around douchebags and 2) because of your aforementioned douchebaggery I would be extrememly hesitant to give you social maladroits my address. However, I do love me some nog. Just check out these previous nog posts. So if you have some sort of nog related item that you’d like to tip me off about, send me an email. But if your nogliscious item might be hard to find in my area, I would really appreciate it if you send it my way.

For those of you already giddy at the thought of me punishing my body with sometimes-tangentially-nog-related-items for the second year in a row, rest assured that I’ve already consumed a gallon of nog that I had purchased in January of this year and froze until my birthday this past September (a tradition I plan on continuing this January), and I’ve already made my first bloggable nog purchase and will be debuting it sometime in November or whenever I damn feel like it.

In summation:
1) you let me know about nog items you’d like me to try
2) I try them
3) I blog about it
4) you laugh at how frequently I go to the hospital for nog related issues

Sushi, Tom Cruise, Jesus, and Stephen Baldwin

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on October 9, 2006 @ 8:56 am
in atheism! and jesus is fo' shizzle
. 9 Comments

Money quote: I’d like to give him a spicy Jesus roll.

In this article sent to me by my friend Jim, Stephen Baldwin proves that you don’t have to be smart to be Born Again.

Of the many things Stephen Baldwin doesn’t know, including the Seven Deadly Sins, what “sloth” means, the 12 disciples, and the Ten Commandments, he does know how to do a completely bonkers interview. At many points I wonder if he hasn’t been dipping into Daniel’s drugs.

Alec must dread every conversation he has to have with this guy.

This is what I get for eating a high-fiber cereal

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on October 5, 2006 @ 11:41 am
in food, potty humor and work
. 23 Comments

Three forces in my life, some of them self-generated, recently coalesced in what I can only consider as an attempt on my life.

1) I have started eating jalapenos as a snack because they are so hot I can only eat one small slice every few minutes. This satisfies my desire to continue stuffing my face, while not allowing me to eat myself into oblivion. Usually I can polish of 10 or 15 jalapenos in an hour, and by the end of that hour my mouth is so scorched, or my appetite is sated enough, or a combination of both, that I can put the peppers down and not worry about eating anything else.

2) I eat a high-fiber cereal every morning. It fills me up, carries me until lunch, and as an added benefit, it keeps me regular. It’s not the cheapest cereal in the world (in fact, it’s pretty expensive at about $3.50 per 13oz box; I could eat knock-off Cheerios for about 33 cents per metric ass-ton, but it just doesn’t have enough fiber) but it has the daily protein, vitamin, and fiber levels that I’m looking for. It looks like bird feed and tastes like an old deck, but, like I said, the fiber.

3) I’m usually the first person into my office in the morning, so I usually get the first appointments of the day. Most of the time this isn’t a problem as we don’t really have appointments early in the day, but every now and then we do, and when we do, I handle them because I’m the only one around. Coincidentally, my high fiber cereal usually hits me about 30 minutes after I’ve gotten in to work.

So, with those three factors in mind, I present the following anecdote:

As I sit across the desk from the early morning appointment I suddenly feel a… trembling in my gut. “Hmm,” I think to myself, “This probably isn’t going to end well.” As my appointment asks question after question it becomes abundantly clear that this will indeed end very poorly. Without getting too graphic, I’ll just say that hull breach was imminent.*

Luckily, as I was calculating in my head how long it would take me to go home and get new pants and get back in time for my next appointment, as well as trying to think up an excuse as to why I had to leave other than, “I pooped my pants,” my appointment finally left. I ran to the bathroom. Literally. Full-stride, arms pumping, tie-over-my-shoulder ran. And what I thought would be a feeling of relief was replaced instead with the horrible sensation of anally birthing a Nerf-football covered with razorblades that has been soaked in rubbing alcohol. I was sweating. Tears were running down my cheeks. The smell was disintegrating my face. Then it was over.

As I sit here typing my palms are clammy, my skin is damp and cold, and I can physically feel a void in my mid-section.

Lesson learned: don’t schedule any more early morning appointments.

*There was a turtle-head poking out.
The brown bear was coming out of his cave.
I was prairie-dogging it.
I was poking cotton.
The torpedoes were armed.
The Tootsie Roll factory was in production.
Mr. Hanky was early for Christmas.
Logs were coming out of the lumber mill.
I was learning what Brown could do for me.
The space shuttle was leaving orbit.
The dog was jumping out of the bathtub.
Old Faithful was ready to erupt.
It was moments before a California mudslide.
I really had to take a Frank Stallone.
Mighty Count Chocula was about to emerge from his slumber.
I was going to start a new band entitled Shitpile! in my Pants.
My body prepared to do an emergency core ejection.
I was about to Jackson Pollack the back of my slacks.

A different take on Mark Foley

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on October 3, 2006 @ 9:22 am
in bitches and sex
. 25 Comments

I’m going to dip my toes into the waters of politics for a moment, but only tangentially, to discuss something that’s been bothering me about Mark Foley’s Instant Messages to his congressional page.

Mark Foley has been referred to as a pedophile and a predator because he was engaging in sexually explicit conversation with a male 16 year old, however, it seems like every other year we hear a story about a 15 year old student who is engaged in some type of relationship with his older, female teacher and all of a sudden he becomes the luckiest boy in the world for being about to have “had sex” with a woman.

What the motherfucking hell is that all about?

If we make these distinctions based on the ages and genders of the victim and the predator we are living in a pretty fucked-up society. Apparently the system works like this:

young woman + boy = lucky kid
young woman + girl = kill the pervert
old woman + boy = kill the pervert
old woman + girl = kill the pervert
young man + boy = kill the pervert
young man + girl = kill the pervert
old man + boy = kill the pervert
old man + girl = kill the pervert

Why is it permissible for a younger woman to sexually molest and or assault a pre-teen? Is it because people remember what it’s like to be 13 and horny for anything? Maybe, but it certainly doesn’t make it right. A 13 year old cannot consent in a relationship like that. There are too many issues of authority, power, and control for a 13 year old to make that type of decision. And if it’s fine for a young woman to “seduce” a boy of 13, or 15, or 16, why is it not okay for a young man to “seduce” a boy of 13, or 15, or 16?

Would this be okay in your mind if Mark Foley was a 52 year old female? What if Mark Foley was a 25 year old female? What if the page was a 16 year old girl, would it be okay then?

I hate this double-standard. People who prey on kids should be treated the same way regardless of age, or gender, so either stop demonizing Mark Foley, or step the fuck up the next time somebody defends sexual predation by excusing it as some sort of “lucky” sexual dalliance.

My night out with Tish

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on October 2, 2006 @ 10:53 am
in Mrs. ACW, beer, food, jokes, meta blogging, potty humor and sex
. 6 Comments

This past Friday night Mrs. ACW and I hosted Tish while she was in town from Texas. Intent on showing her a good time in and around Baltimore, we picked her up at the Light Rail station and went over to Fell’s Point to grab dinner and some drinks.

Tish was very friendly, charming, and quite funny. We talked about blogging briefly, but mostly spent out time just joking around, talking about anything and everything, including: glass eyes, poop, bar fights, traffic, drinking, Saddam, bestiality, family, and a little chocolate-cake-with-the-appearance-of-poop thrown in at the end. We had a really good time.

Then the drinks started to kick in. For starters Tish was drinking Black Russians by the pitcherful. I didn’t realize Black Russians were available by the pitcher, but she seemed to change the bartenders mind when she threatened him with that broken beer bottle and sociopathic glint in her eye. I swear, every time she started dancing on the table, throwing drinks at the television, or physically assaulting other bar patrons the bartender would show up in an attempt to curb her behavior, but she would pull that broken beer bottle as if out of thin air and the bartender would just cower and offer another pitcher of Vodka and Kahlua, further fueling her alcoholic outbursts. I don’t even know where she got that bottle from.

We moved from bar to bar, each location a worse dive than the one before it in the hopes that we’d find a bar crowd rowdy enough to match our boisterous southwestern Hooligan, but we were at a loss; Tish raged on, and by our count, deflowered at least four virginal men PURELY BY ACCIDENT.

By the time we reached what would thankfully be our final bar for the evening, Tish had become tired, and a bit more sedate, but as we quickly learned, just as violent as ever. We thought she had settled down, her rage relaxed by bucketfuls of grain-alcohol and a quick back-alley blood-letting with a hobo whose consent was questionable, because she was showing us pictures of her son and daughter on her camera-phone. “What are their names?” Mrs. ACW asked politely.

“Dump-truck and Steamroller,” Tish said.

We laughed at her joke, thinking she had returned to the delightful, charming, and wise-cracking out-of-towner we had seen earlier in the evening.

“What are you laughing at?! Are you making fun of my children?!” she bellowed. “Those are powerful names! My children have names of immeasurable strength and fortitude! How dare you mock them!”

And with that Tish launched into her final rage of the night. You’ll probably read about the aftermath in the newspaper, and I don’t think they’ll EVER get some of those stains off the ceiling, but I don’t think that’s the greatest injustice of the evening.

Her daughter was the one named Dump-truck.

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