When in Doubt…

Being in the throes of a moral quandary at the moment, I decided that the best thing to do would involve distracting myself. The best source of distraction, for me, is abusing innocent phone support workers. I realize that some of my readers are troubled by this dark and terrible part of myself, and I do honestly wish that I could purge it. But there is something so deeply and innately satisfying about browbeating people in phone banks, a pure and simple happiness which I strive for in daily life but rarely achieve.

Luckily, in this modern world where otherwise respectable restaurants call patrons “fucking cunts*” and the phone company tries to sneak inappropriate charges onto my phone bill, the problem isn’t finding someone to abuse…it’s choosing who to abuse.

Enter Comcast, stage left.

Comcast, for those who are not aware, has a monopoly on high speed internet and cable service on Treasure Island. This means that if you want either of these things, you are forced to go through Comcast, and Comcast knows it. Oh, does Comcast know it. The Boys use Comcast and Cap’n Raspberry does battle with them every time the monthly bill arrives.

That’s why I was so delighted when I got my last bill…it was for the correct amount, and they were charging me for the correct services. I was actually flabbergasted that Comcast had decided to not suck, and I was tempted to frame the bill to marvel at. Of course, the online payment system wouldn’t let me in, but I figured I could phone in a payment closer to the due date.

Alas, such was not to be, I discovered when I finally remembered to check the mail today. In the dark crevices of the mailbox was an envelope from Comcast. It crackled ominously as I pulled it out and opened it, revealing a bill for approximately three times the amount of our monthly services.

Ah, Comcast.

Thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart, for having 24 hour service.

Calling Comcast at 1:00 AM results in a long hold time, for an unknown reason. But ultimately an innocent “customer care agent” came on the line and I gave her what for.

I’ve got to give the lady credit, she kept her cool, even in crisp exchanges such as this:

“Well, I see here that you were charged $59.95.”

“Yeah, see Yvonne, the thing is, I see that too, and that happens to NOT BE THE CONTRACT WE SIGNED UP FOR.”

“Well, you signed up for internet, Ms Jones, correct?”

“Uh, yeah, we did. We did not sign up for $59.95 worth of internet. Who in fuck’s name would pay that much for monthly internet service, even to a bloodsucking cockroach such as Comcast?”

“Uh, I’ll check on that, ma’am.”

Comcast has won round one, with a “call back” promised for tomorrow. Yvonne actually agreed that we had been incorrectly charged, but couldn’t do anything about it.

Couldn’t…or wouldn’t?

I can hardly wait, billing department. Bring. It. On.

*You are going to have to disregard my earlier comments on Piacigate, my friends, because I have taken a new stance: please don’t eat at Piaci and please don’t eat at their new restaurant, either. You know. Assuming that you live anywhere near Fort Bragg. Calling patrons “fucking cunts” is simply not acceptable by any stretch of the imagination, especially when you are the owner of a restaurant.