November 27, 2003

• Cranky.

  
  

  

  
  

  These are the things I am currently very cranky about. Yes, I am tired, yes I am stressed, but mother-of-all-that's-good-and-holy, why must these things torment me?

  
  

  Citibank.

  
  

  I would like to reach down the phone and rip the hearts out of each and every so-called "Customer Service" representative that works there.
  Tip for "Customer Service" Reps: if you say you are going to call me back, then do so. Otherwise, that's called lying. I don't care if you have nothing to report except that nothing has happened, you said you'd call back.
  I am sorry that Simon who was supposed to call went home sick except when I called and then he was on another call, I am sorry that Dominick waited  until 6:45pm and then thought it was too late (who are you kidding, bub?), and I am desolate that you have 6 other customers with the same issues and you are spending hours on the phone. You ain't spending hours on the phone to ME, so that isn't customer service. And your co-workers aren't my problem.
  I have better things to do then sit around waiting for a non-existent courier to arrive, and much much better things to do then sit through your endlessly perky automated phone menu so I can call to tear your balls off. If you can't handle your job responsibilities, which appear to me mostly about interacting with customers, then find a job that suits you better. Say, growing mould in a petri dish.

  
  

  Australia Post.

  
  

  If a letter arrives registered mail, and I am not here to sign for it, you must must let me know that you did, in fact, attempt to deliver the letter. I believe such things are called 'Attempted Delivery Advices' and you simply fill them in, and pop them in the mailbox. Otherwise, you are relying heavily on my ability to pick up your mental vibrations and sense through ESP that there is a parcel waiting for me at the Post Office. I hesitate to mention this, as I know you will find it hard to believe, but my psychic abilities deserted me about the time I fucked with an Ouija board in Grade 8. But believe this, this parcel is a passport, and should it go back to Canberra where it was issued, this will totally fuck my holiday.
  And then I will buy a pump action shotgun and cheerfully blast your soft poofy donut eating, McNugget gobbling ass through the Post Office wall. So make sure it's there when I get there, bub. You don't want to fuck with a holiday deprived stay at home mum with a teething 9 month old and a 4 year old diva in training who's afraid of the dark.

  
  

  BBQ Guests.

  
  

  No, you cannot bring your slobbery aggressive dog. I don't like it and I will kick it every time it comes near me.
  No, you cannot bring your crusty old rellies, they bore me and they hog the bathroom, making stinky poos.
  No, your children will not be served healthy snacks, I intend to stuff your kids with enough Red Dye No 3 to preserve them for decades, and enough sugar to keep them bouncing off the walls until breakfast time. It's a party, geddit?
  No, you cannot sneak your $5 bottle of Chateau Sydney Harbour into the fridge and then glugg back my $19 bottle of Leuwin Estate. I see you, and I will spit in your glass when you aren't looking, and wipe boogers on your chicken wings.

  
  

  St. George Bank.

  
  

  You are all a bunch of tossers. It is incredibly bad customer relations to take an overdraft fee out of the account 4 days after the alleged offence occurred. Especially when the funds were transferred in, 6 minutes after the overdraft happened.

  
  

  It is even more insulting when you realise that it was due to a bank error that the overdraft occurred.

  
  

  And it is tremendously bad form, to promise to reverse said charge, and NOT DO IT.

  
  

  This is why you have no friends.
  This is why you can't get laid.
  This is why we, the popular fun people, laugh about bank employees at our incredibly fun parties.
  We laugh at you, we laugh about you, and we plot ways to take our money and our large mortgages to Trust Companies.

  
  

  Walt Disney.

  
  

  Excuse me, but you spent millions upon millions marketing the Lion King to littlies. Your artists drew cute big eyed lions, your writers worked on a sappy preachy story line, and you got that old drag queen Sir Elton to write pappy melodies. So why is it so hard to believe that when the stage show comes to town, that parents would want to take their kids?
  Oh it isn't.
  That's why you refuse to offer childrens ticket prices, and insist that babes in arms, pay full adult prices. This brings the cost of a family outing to $400:

  
  

  
  
  • Two Adults - $200. 
  
  
  • 1 Child who gets her own seat - $100. But she better not talk and disturb the other patrons who are there for intellectual edification.
  
  
  • One baby who doesn't get her own seat - $100.  Hey, seems fair to me. I mean, she must be renting the rareified air space that the artists (aka known as "actors who can't be recognised behind warthog masks") are breathing.

  
  

  
  And when queried, you tell me that the show isn't for kids, and they are not encouraged to come, hence the outrageous ticketing policy. Well that sucks, Mr. Disney.
  News Flash: It may be wonderful, it may be spectacular, but it isn't ART. It's a bunch of people with lion outfits on (that's called 'dressup' in our house, and we can do it with eyeliner and a bedsheet), pretending to be African (cultural exploitation is a recurrent Disney theme) and it won't change the world, especially with Elton John music (the world ain't Croc-Rockin' last time I checked). You are just being pretentious wankers, and all the pretending in the world won't let  us forget you got rich on the back of a badly drawn cartoon mouse and fairy tale rip-offs.

  
  

  Yah Boo Sucks to all.

  • 5:29 pm
  • 14 Comments