In an earlier column, I talked about guys who believe that sexy bartender ladies are actually into them. It's depressing when a dude is so desperate for attention he thinks women who have full-blown economic incentives to be friendly and/or flirt are feeling a deep emotional commitment based on the way he gets drunk while sitting in a stool.
Now there's a man who knows how to drink his sadness in an attractive way.
But let's speak directly to these sexy ladies of the bar for a moment. I can't help but notice that some of the most friendly of you are also oppressively self-assured that all your patrons are dying to sleep with you. It's true, some of you are attractive. Some are genuinely nice. And I know you have to put up with pathetic men making lame attempts to get in your pants all day long. But not every dude is dying to jump you. First of all, some of us are married, some of us are gay and some of us only achieve orgasm while fantasizing about Elizabeth Montgomery in a three-way with both Dick York and Dick Sargent. But most importantly, some of you just really aren't all that. And I'm not "negging" -- that neat trick where guys put you down to destroy your confidence and then prey on you in your compromised state. And don't say "Yeah, but you'd still have sex if we let you." Well, of course we would. We're men. But that doesn't mean we're hitting on you.
At least personally, odds are I like my Jameson a lot more than I like you. Also, more in the market for a buyback than intercourse.
McDonald's makes mistakes. Y'know, simple stuff, like failing to hold the cheese or leaving out some fries. Once, they even gave me a bun that had no burger in it. But of all the mistakes they've made, there's something they never seem to do: give an extra Chicken McNugget.
That's pretty impressive, because I've seen some cashiers exhibiting what I would call less than exemplary counting skills. But no, they always get it right. And I'm sure of it because I always check (because I'm a very sexy man that everyone likes).
You have better odds of snapping a picture of Ronald McDonald snorting blow off Grimace's ass than getting an extra Chicken McNugget.
And Ronald's far too fast for that.
Customer service is a maze designed to help you lose. My wife's ASUS computer recently inexplicably died after 11 months, resulting in my spending literally 10-plus hours on the phone with customer service and mailing it to their service center no fewer than four times for repairs until it was ultimately replaced. (Oh, for those of you who are now saying "Get a Mac," I want you to know I'm on the way over to your mom's house to have sex with her right now. I have to make one stop first, though, to sodomize the moms of the people thinking "That's why I build my own computers.")
In any event, each time a nonworking computer showed up at my house, you'd think I'd have a story compelling enough to speak to a supervisor immediately. Not so. I called diplomatically; I called maniacally; I assumed every tone and temperament possible, and it just didn't matter. Each time I had to spend 15 minutes with someone pretending to be from America who took down my name, model number, work service order and complaints. They were the frontline of polite uselessness. An amenable buffer of inactivity. Friendly and ineffectual.
"How may I harm you?"
This is not a unique story. It reflects poorly on employees to get their supervisors involved. Meanwhile, only supervisors have the authority to actually accommodate significant grievances. So consumers are placed in the exhilarating position of being forced to talk to the people who can't help them while being kept from those who can. If you ever have a serious grievance and find a customer service person who will forward your call to a supervisor immediately, then chaos theory would dictate that that employee is also the Loch Ness Monster.
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