"Customer Disservice"
by Bucktowndusty
Yesterday was a great day. The sun was shining, my back didn't hurt, and the traffic jams vanished from the earth as I made my way to Best Buy to use a $20 gift card given to me for Christmas. Yeah, life was good all right.
Inside the store, the first sign I spotted was for DVD's - the exact commodity I wanted. God had temporarily bestowed upon me hawk vision and the swiftness of a cheetah as I scurried to the movie racks in search of two rather obscure movie titles. To my delight, the last copies of the two movies I wanted were waiting for me, so I nestled them into my arms and trotted up to the checkout line, whistling in giddy contentment.
What's this; hardly any line? The next cashier available was for me? "What a day," I said to myself as I acknowledged the first available cashier's glance with a polite "Oh, you're the angel sent here just to serve me" smile. Then it happened. Satan intervened.
Instead of a pleasant return smile, Medusa greeted me with that all to familiar teenaged look of lethargic discontent and resentment for all things "not me". You know, that look of, "my feet hurt like hell due to bastard customers like you," look. She didn't even say hi, hello, or ask me if I found everything I was looking for. Instead, she just looked past me with that day-dreamer's glaze, using her peripheral vision to locate my purchase with her hand and ring it up with the speed equal to that of a three-toed sloth high on reefer. She moved so sluggish, it looked like she had dead lice falling off her ass (I remember working at Arby's for $2.35 an hour, emptying the grease bins on the fryer with more zeal). It was as if her body was stuck to a giant invisible fly strip and I was the jerk who hung it.
I thought that perhaps I should try to relate to her in an attempt to reverse her paralysis. I said, "It's tough working on Saturdays, Huh? I used to hate it." To this she expelled barely enough air to force the piece of gum she was chewing to the side of her cheek to reply, "Can I have your phone number?" Best Buy likes to market to all the customers they disrespect, apparently. At this point, the delusions of a good day were fading quickly, so I decided to dispense with the futile pleasantries and give her my phone number. "301-555-1212," I replied. The stupor she was stewing in propelled my sarcastic comment over and past her hollow cranium. She simply rang up my order, put the purchase in a bag, and shoved it towards me like a kid rejecting spinach.
At this point, this witch hadn't acknowledged me once with a direct look in the eye. I decided that I was going to give her one last chance to show some respect. When she gave my gift card back, I decided to act like I was having a hard time getting the card back into my wallet, giving her enough time to say goodbye. I wasted 5 seconds looking like an idiot only to receive no congenial sendoff. "Bitch!" I yelled to myself in silence, as I walked out, never looking back for fear she could read minds and turn me into stone to rival her personality.
By the time I got home, I was streaming-hot mad. Although, I know what it was like to be a teenager, and I've hated a job or two in my life, I still had respect and common courtesy. Yes, I was well within my right to complain, so I called up the manager, and after several minutes on hold (imagine that), a manager introduced himself and asked how he could help me.
I told him that I just shopped at his store and a girl named Jessie waited on me. Well, actually I told him that she acted as if she couldn't wait to get rid of me. I told him to tell Jessie that I could relate to her, but if she hates her job and lets customers know it, the customers are going to hate coming to her store. I mentioned to him how much of a detrimental effect Jessie could have on his store, considering that she probably could have waited on 200 people during just one of her shifts. The manager, acknowledging the wisdom of my words and aggravation in my voice, agreed and said he would correct the problem. I thanked him then ended the call.
Should I have done it? You're damn'd right I should have. Too often, customer service professionals disrespect customers and the customers go home carrying the emotional burden of these bad experiences. With Jessie, I simply returned the favor, lobbing the ball of negative energy back into her court. Now she had to deal with it, not me. I highly urge everyone to do likewise.
Furthermore, I've decided to seek out the Jessies of the world and F@c! with them. I will force them to have a conversation. The more they try to resist, the more I shall persist, the more I will fumble with my wallet, and the more phone calls I'll make when I get home. I highly urge everyone to try this, too.
Don't be a passive reader! Tell me what you think! Do you AGREE or DISAGREE with me? Let me know, and while you're at it, if you want me to write about something, let me know that too! |
"Murder Stinks"
by A. Hamilton
The sole purpose of military training in the sixties was to create effective killers, especially with Vietnam onthe horizon.
First, the government breaks you down to an insignificant blob of a human being, and then they rebuild you into a killing machine where the First Sergeant is your father, your mother and your family.
The First Sergeant bellows," If you can't extract your bayonet from the enemies ribs you could get a court martial for losing government property." Then, the sergeant demonstrates, "To prevent the bayonet from getting wedged between the enemy's ribs, lay the blade down flat."
A few days later, the sergeant demonstrates again. "This is the thirty caliber, M1 riffle," He holds the riffle above his head. "With this riffle you can hit the enemy right between the eyes from a distance of six hundred yards while he is enjoying a bowel movement."
Week after week, the good sergeant demonstrates many ways to kill the enemy, some of the methods required great skill, some of them crude - all were violent. I'm sure the fighting skills of today's military is much more technical, but still as effective, still as deadly.
Lieutenant Ilario Pantanos is one of many such fighting men and women in Iraq today. Recently, he was involved in a firefight where he killed two insurgents. Unfortunately, a disgruntled subordinate reported that he killed one of the insurgents needlessly by shooting him in the back. As a result of this report, Lieutenant Ilario Pantanos may be charged with murder.
What the hell! Why not charge him with first-degree murder? After all, he had a motive, wherein, he has seen fellow Americans having their heads hacked off. He has seen the legs and arms of children littering the streets as a result of suicide bombers. He has seen his buddies shot dead after letting the enemy approach carrying a white flag, and he has seen fellow Americans burning while hanging from a bridge. And, he has the opportunity, wherein, the United States Government has placed him snack in the middle of a hell hole, wrapped him in a bandolier of bullets with grenades strapped to his chest, a hand gun on one hip and a knife on the other while carrying an assault riffle.
Please! Someone explain to me how one can murder the enemy on the battlefield. I might agree with this if the enemy was enjoying a bowel movement at the time, which makes me think, "This whole thing about bringing Lieutenant Ilario Pantanos up for murder---stinks.
Don't be a passive reader! Tell me what you think! Do you AGREE or DISAGREE with me? Let me know, and while you're at it, if you want me to write about something, let me know that too!
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