You know I just won't do it anymore. I've wasted enough of my precious time in line, on hold, and in the waiting room to earn a Ph.D in queuing theory.
So, let's get something straight, Cupcake.I walk into your store and head up to your counter. You start by greeting me with something cheesy and folksy that the airheads in your corporate brainwashing center came up with like, "Hi there, how can I brighten your day?" and I immediately want to punch you in the throat. So already we're starting off on the wrong foot, aren't we, Sunshine? And then your goddamn phone rings and you sparkle off to go answer it.
And this is where the heat in my oven hits broil.
Why is it that someone who gets up, gets showered and shaved, gets dressed, hauls his ass into his car, burns expensive gasoline, orbits the parking lot for 13 of your earth years, finally finds a spot and hikes the 42 miles to your front door get sidelined by some loser in her pj's that picked up a phone and punched a few buttons? How is it that actual people in the flesh are left standing with their orders half out of their mouths while some Housfrau in a hair net asks a bunch of hypotheticals about the philosophical implications of the side orders attached to your Family Meal Troughs?
Well, I won't stand for it, Peanut, and here's what I expect you to do: Get a goddamned answering machine and while I'm here in the flesh, let the callers rot in the digital wasteland of "Hits from the 90's" hold music while you start giving a damn about the real people in the room. Otherwise you'll find yourself out of the people business and into the business of delivering food to agorophobic hoarders who can't even find the energy to pull on a pair of dockers. You will have contributed to the slobifying of America.
So put down that phone and get your priorities straight before I reprioritize your face, Tinkerbell.
Dedicated to Capn Ergo Jingobollocks for his birthday