Saturday, 2:00 p.m. I attend a family reunion at an outdoor park. Having so much of my gene pool in one place prompts Mother Nature to attack with the biggest, nastiest thunderstorm of the year, as we huddle under trees. Despite some near hits, we survive.
Saturday, 6:42 p.m. I try to check my email. The computer works fine, except that I can no longer connect to the internet. I follow the troubleshooting recommendations and check to see if the cables are securely connected. They are. It still doesn’t work. There’s only one thing left: Call technical support.
Saturday, 6:43 p.m. Spend most of the next four hours in dread of what is to come.
Saturday, 10:36 p.m. I begin searching the computer for info. All the technical support information on the computer is geared toward getting help online. The vein in my right temple begins channeling Lewis Black.
Saturday, 11:23 p.m. I locate a number in a booklet which came with the computer.
Saturday, 11:24 p.m. Wrong number. I call my friend Dan to see if he knows the number. Dan says to just call the 1-800 sales number and surf my way through their system, and I’ll get there eventually. I call the 1-800 sales number. I begin surfing through the voice-activated menus. I reach the menu for tech support. My problem does not match any of the options. I say “other.” I am put on hold while a recording tells me, “Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line, and a technician will answer your call in the order it was received.” They then proceed to blare a horrifically distorted recording of “smooth jazz” (with, in this case, “smooth” meaning, “powered by Ex-Lax”). Every so often the music stops, making me think I’m about to get a live person. Then I hear “Your call is important to us….”
Sunday, 12:10 a.m. It occurs to me that the brand name of the computer rhymes with “hell” for a reason. Holding the phone for an hour aggravates my carpal tunnel, so I put down the handset and turn up the volume. Every time the screeching smoothy jazz stops, I pick up the handset. But it is still only the recording. I begin saying mean things to the recording, and am now channeling Lewis Black in both temples.
Sunday, 12:24 a.m. Begin shouting and screaming rather vicious things at, about, and to the recorded message.
Sunday, 12:57 a.m. Become Lewis Black and try to strangle recorded voice on the telephone. Finally, slam phone down and sulk until sleep comes three hours later.
Sunday, 4:44 a.m. Dream about being on hold, waiting for a technician named Godot.
Sunday, 10:39 a.m. Call technical support again. Get message, “Your call is important to us…” I hold.
Sunday, 11:17 a.m. My call is answered! The technician says, “Hello, my name is Steve,” but he sounds like that fakir in the movie All Of Me with Steve Martin, who goes around saying “Put Edwina back-in-bowl,” in a thick accent and flushing the toilet every time the phone rings. He’s now my technician, and I must call him “Steve.” He says his service will cost $99.00. I give him my credit card number. He asks if my cables are connected securely.
Sunday, 12:53 p.m. “Steve” concludes that I have a problem, but not one that he can fix. He suggests I call my Internet Service Provider.
Sunday, 12:54 p.m. I take a break and have a scotch for lunch.
Sunday, 1:54 p.m. I call my ISP. I get a message saying, “Your call is important to us…” I bang my head on the desk until a technician answers.
Sunday, 2:15 p.m. The technician says, “Hay-lo, ma name i’ Loqueesha.” As far as I can tell, she asks if my cables are connected securely. After a long pause I answer, “Yes.” Loqueesha then proceeds to walk me through the same troubleshooting routine as “Steve” did. She concludes that the problem is in my computer, not in my ISP connection.
Sunday, 3:07 p.m. I call Hell technical support again. I find that there are certain words which the voice-activated menu has trouble making out. After doing that for a while to blow off some steam, I finally go into the tech support menu. Now they have forgone badly reproduced music and just replaced it with an antagonizing electronic shriek. I use the hand set to strike myself repeatedly in the forehead.
Sunday, 3:38 p.m. I decide to hang up before I snap and go on a killing spree. I check to see if my cables are securely connected. They are.
Sunday, 4:02 p.m. I go to the office store and buy a new computer. It isn’t a Hell.
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