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life of erin, Two-and-a-half-minute Fiction Prahject

Two-and-a-half-minute Fiction ‘Prahject’: Take 47

It’s been a while, so let’s jump right in:

“How to Fight the Man: aka How I Got Comcast to Give Me Money”

Comcast, comcast sucks

Do an image search for "Comcast sucks." That's a fun one.

Say you had an appointment for your Internets and cable to be installed. Let’s also add that this appointment was a week after you’ve already moved in and this the “earliest possible time available.” This is a lie. You know this is a lie because the they said they would come Tuesday, but then you received an ominous voicemail on Sunday alerting you to make sure an 18 year old was available to open the door to a stranger with a tool belt and a Velcro-ed on name tag.

Then, let’s pretend they don’t come. They don’t come Monday and they don’t call to tell you they’re not coming until they do come. And they come when you’re getting dressed to go run the 567 errands a freshly moved person has to run. But lucky, you… the installation only takes a mere two hours! 

So you call Comcast because you are P to the O’ed off. You talk to a lovely rep with whom you try to diligently be kind to, after all it’s not her fault… until it IS her fault when she puts you on hold for an hour, forgets you’re still in holding hell and then hangs up on you. Half way through that hour, even the hold music quits on you, but no, you would not be the first one to hang up just like in a bad teen romance movie, you would not hang up first. But you did. 

So you try again, and this time, you screw being nice. You hear yourself becoming your mother with every sarcastic, snarky, rhetorical comment: “Would you like to see my to-do list today? Do you have any idea the inconvenience your company has caused me? I know it’s not your fault, I don’t care!”

You want reimbursement. The monetary kind. Greenbacks. Comcast cash. Cable credit. Waive something. ANYTHING. Apparently the Super isn’t taking any calls today because the corns on his feet hurt so they take down your number (with pen and paper? GOD) and promise the Super will call within 24 hours. When you say that inevitably they will not call, and ask what to do when that inevitably happens, he says, 

“Call back.”

Crap. 

So you prep yourself for that Super phone call. You have options. Which one will you use?

Option A) You are a super model. And all this time waiting around has forced you to stress eat. During your five, count ’em, five-hour wait, you have eaten the following: two frozen burritos, a bag of Sun Chips (the family size bag), a diet Coke, the rest of the Chunky Monkey you didn’t finish last night, two bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, four of those Tobblerone bars, and you sniffed at an apple for good measure. You now weight 10 pounds heavier and it is ALL. COMCAST’S. FAULT. You tell them in an airy waif-like voice how this will cost your career and remind them of the difficulties of getting gigs when you can’t fit into the priceless couture, and can’t find the gigs in the first place because you couldn’t go to Starbucks for Internet because you had to be at home waiting for the Internet fairy to come, except they came LATE. You tell them, 

“Don’t you see the Catch-22 here?!”

They will be so impressed with a model’s grasp of contemporary literature that they will give you three months free service as long as you send the Super an autographed photo of you in Jean Paul Gaultier. Which you will do gladly. With Photoshop.

Option B)  You are fat. You tell them you are so fat you cannot leave the house. The kind that needs a crane to go to the bathroom. The Super will say, 

“Weren’t you on Oprah?”

And you will say, yes, that was you. And since that day you’ve had a live webcam of your life to keep the public enthralled, except without Internet, there’s no webcam and without the webcam, there’s no ad revenue. And if there’s no ad revenue, there’s no money for food, and you’ll get skinny and then there won’t be a need for a live webcam or ad revenue… or Oprah. You tell the Super, 

“I know people who know Oprah and she’d buy Comcast out from under your cable modem and turn it into OWI in a heartbeat: Oprah Winfrey Internet.”

The Super knows how rich Oprah is, and he believes you. He waives the installation fee and docks your monthly payment to an even $40. Before you hang up, you tell him Comcast is now one of your “favorite things.”

Option C) You have a cat. And a bulldog. You’re a pet owner, you tell the Super. And your pets DEPEND on Netflix. Your entire neighborhood depends on your pets watching Netflix if they want to eat any of their meals without hearing kitty and doggy grumblings coming from your apartment. You’ve rigged it so that all they need to do is swipe a tail across the screen to pick a movie and hit the spacebar to watch it. It keeps them calm. They snuggle up like Milo and Otis and don’t utter a peep as they take in the latest installment of True Blood. And if they don’t get their Netflix? They howl. Neighbors complain. They’ll call the police. Take Milo and Otis away from you. And you’ll fall into a deep depression and have to go on Prozac for the rest of your life. Does Comcast want you to sue them for a lifetime’s supply of Prozac, you ask the Super? The Super says, 

“You could get a generic brand.”

You snap back that you bet HE wouldn’t take a generic version of Prozac, being a Comcast Super and all. He doesn’t answer. You laugh menacingly. You can practically hear him shudder on the other end. He think’s your so crazy and just wants to get the hell off the phone with you, so he offers free installation and free service for a year. In a whisper you say, 

“Goodnight, puppet.”

Click. 

Donzo. 

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