Von

 So I made a call to the good folks at DirecTv last night.

Yup, the same muhfukkas who’ve been dikking me around for months now.

I ordered a hi-def DVR in July of ‘07.

It is currently February of ‘08…and I still ain’t got my shyt.

However, they have been charging me every month—for DVR service that I still don’t have!

In the history of mankind, has there ever been customer service any worse than that?

I pay ‘em my hard-earned money. They owed me some answers.
I needed them to stop lying and tell me what the hell was really goin’ on behind the scenes.

Anyone who knows me knows that I rarely lose my temper.
Few people have ever heard me raise my voice.
And I can’t remember if I’ve ever gone off on someone (outside of playing football).
But if there was ever a time for me to snap out on a muhfukka—it was TONIGHT, gat dammit!

 

So the automated system puts me on the line with this dude named Rick (I think that was his name).
Sounded like a dorky white guy.

 

“What can I do for you tonight, Mr XXXX?“

I told him (with a calm, yet authoritative voice) how his company had been fukking me for months.

I let him know the last few people I talked to straight up lied to me.

And that I just wanted him to be straight with me.

All I wanted was for him to: 1) send my hi-def DVR, and 2) refund the money that I’ve been paying for DVR service that I ain’t got.

Is that too much to ask?

 

Apparently so, ’cause that muhfukka lied to me right off the bat.

 

“Mr XXXXX, our records show that your hi-def DVR service was disconnected in October and we haven’t charged you since then.“

Uh, huh. That’s what ol’ girl told me the last time.

Her ass was lying. So was he!

 

Since I had my computer on, I went to their website and pulled up my bill. I told him that I was looking right at the $6 monthly DVR service charge. Caught in his lie, dude backtracked. At first he offered me 3 free months of HBO (nah, dog. I want my money!). After a few minutes, he said he’d refund me, but he could only do it from October…even though I was charged for it from July. When I pressed him, he said that was all he could do.

It took all I had not to scream at dude.

Instead, I waited patiently for dude to refund my gotdamn money.

When he “finished,” I asked him for a confirmation number.

Dude said he couldn’t give me one.

WTF! I thought every transaction had a confirmation number.

But he said this one didn’t.

Son of a bytch!

Instead, he told me to refresh my bill online—because the refund would show there.

After a few minutes of “refreshing,” I never saw my refund.

Again, I almost lost it and snapped on his ass, but instead I politely asked him to just send my fukkin’ hi-def DVR.

‘Cause at that point, I’d been on the phone for 30 minutes and I was missing the Duke/UNC game.

Can you believe that dude told me I had to pay for another one?
His reasoning: since my 90-day warranty had run out, I wasn’t “covered” anymore.

With my voice bordering on yelling, I asked dude how the fukk can a warranty run out on something I never received?

“Sorry, sir. There’s nothing I can do.”

Have you ever seen that Snickers commercial where the telemarketer wakes a guy up at 6 in the morning—and the dude (while still on the phone and in his bathrobe) flies to the state where the telemarketer is, finds where he works, and smashes his keyboard?

That’s exactly what I wanted to do to that muhfukka from DirecTv.
But instead of smashing the keyboard on the ground, I wanted to smash it over dude’s head and whoop on his pussy ass till the sun came up!

After I finally raised my voice (somewhat), dude magically transferred me to some people who knew what the hell they were doing.

After putting me on hold so that they could review “the notes on my account,” they said my hi-def DVR would be here in 2 to 3 days. They even gave me a confirmation number. I actually believe I’ll really get my shyt this time.  

It’s a damn shame you have to raise your voice and get borderline ignorant with a muhfukka just to get what you paid for.

 

 

Every month Esquire magazine runs a feature called “10 Things You Don’t Know About Women,” where celebrity women make a list of things that men should know about the opposite sex. Sometimes it’s helpful advice. Other times it’s just male bashing. For instance:

Molly Shannon: (“It’s not the thought that counts; it’s whether or not we can return it and get what we really want… ‘Island wear’ is a cue to us that you’re bad in bed.”)
Regina King: (“When we say, ‘Wow, that must be your favorite shirt,’ we mean, ‘Wow, that’ll make a great dust rag.’ “)

It got me to thinking: I should write my own list. But I couldn’t stop at just 10:

25 Things You Don’t Know About Men

1) It’s only acceptable to inform us that “it’s that time of the month” when a) when we think you might be preggo, or b) when we’re trying to “get some” and you need to let us know it ain’t happenin’. For the latter, please let us know ASAP—like before we come over.

2) For the love of God; please don’t wear that hideous pirate scarf to bed EVER again! We need you lookin’ sexy at night. Not like you’re about to go make some pancakes with Aunt Jemima.

3) It is both cute and hilarious when you’re really afraid of scary movies.

4) But it makes us feel like men when you grab our arms during the scary parts.

5) Let us know if you have a man right away. Don’t be holdin’ an hour-long conversation that conveniently ends with, “I don’t think my boyfriend would like me giving out my number…”

6) Also, don’t give us your number if a) you’re not gonna accept our phone calls or call us back, or b) you have no desire to holla at us. What’s the purpose?

7) Wanna really impress us? Gon’ ‘head and pay for that check every once in a while.

We know y’all wear those skimpy Halloween outfits to live out your secret fantasies of being a slut. If just for one night.

9) Y’all aren’t the only ones who fake it just to get it over with.

10) We’ll never understand your shoe-shopping obsession—when y’all have like 40 pairs already. Same with purses. Just get a black one and be done with it.

11) We’ll also never comprehend why y’all insist on rockin’ 4-inch heels that hurt your feet within 10 minutes of walking or dancing. Don’t complain to me—I had the sense to wear comfortable shoes.

12) We’re deathly afraid that one night you’re gonna break “it” when you’re “on top.” So take it easy, dog. It’s our manhood. Not the stability ball at the gym.

13) When we tell yo’ ass you absolutely have to be ready by 7, we really mean that we need you ready by 8. We’re just compensating for a) the outlandish amount of time it takes for you to get ready, and b) your complete disregard for being places on time.

14) Under NO circumstances should you EVER mention that you’re going to “take a dump.” Or “take a piss.” Just excuse yourself to go to the ladies room.

15) If we’re not the best (or biggest) you’ve ever had, please don’t tell us. Even if we ask.

16) We need to be in control of the TV remote at ALL times. Even at your place. Thanks for your cooperation.

17) We hate it when y’all backseat drive. Even if we get lost and end up in the Mohave Desert somewhere, we’ll eventually get to where we need to be…without your nagging!

18) We’ve learned more about women from watching Sex and the City than we’ve learned in the duration of our relationship. We might even go see the movie.

19) We fear that once we say the words, “I do”—you’ll transform from a sweet, loving person—into a psycho, controlling bitch who’ll spaz out when we hang out with the fellas.

20) Your attractiveness level goes down by at least 50% when we see a cigarette between your lips.

21) No matter how many times you explain it to us, we’ll NEVER understand the big fukkin’ deal about letting the toilet seat down.

22) And if you’re a woman over the age of 8 and you’ve fallen into the toilet because a man left the seat up, you’re a dumb ass!

23) As for drinking: tipsiness is cute; drunkenness is not.

24) Sooner or later—at some point in our relationship we’re gonna try to gauge your interest in taking part in a threesome.

25) And no, our idea of a threesome doesn’t include two men.

Dog, Hollywood be havin’ these women believing that us men will do some outlandish shyt.

Against all sound logic and reason.

Case in point: Saturday afternoon I caught the matinee showing of the much-anticipated monster flick Cloverfield.

I hadn’t seen a good, old-fashioned monster movie in a minute.
And I love me some scary movies.
When the buzz started about a flick with a monster attacking New York City documented from the perspective of a handheld camera, I couldn’t wait to check it out.

I invited my young lady friend along.

Yeah, ol’ girl who accompanied me to see The Mist. The night Captain Obvious showed the hell up and acted a damn fool.

I enjoy taking her to see horror flicks because she jumps at every scary part. Even if she’s seen the movie already. Dog, she’s fukkin’ hilarious. You’d think the monsters jumped out at her for real.

Without giving away too much of the movie, I’ll give a brief synopsis of what went down.
A huge monster attacks NYC.
Starts destroying shyt left and right. Everything is chaos.
The main character, Rob, gets a voicemail from his “girlfriend” Beth.
She’s trapped in her wrecked apartment on the other side of town.
Her message cuts off abruptly. He doesn’t know if she’s alive or not.

While everyone else is trying to get out of Manhattan and away from the monster, dude and three of his friends—against all reason and logic—venture back into the city, toward the monster in an effort to save ol’ girl.

So to recap: Rob had the choice of getting to safety or risking his life for someone he wasn’t sure was still alive. He chose the latter.

“What a dumb ass,” I thought as dude attempted to do some unprecedented shyt.

Ain’t too many dudes gon’ go through all of that.
I know I wouldn’t.

The only scenario where I would go back is if I had kids under 18.

ANYBODY else?
Please! I’ll keep your legacy alive after I get the hell to safety.  That’s includes friends, family, and/or loved ones.

And if I were trapped, I wouldn’t want nobody else risking their life coming back for me either. I’ll just take my L like a man.

I almost threw the hell up when Beth—after being rescued—adoringly said, “You came back for me!”

Only in Hollywood , dog.

As me and ol’ girl were leaving the theater, she asked the magic question:

“Would you go back for me?”

Fukk! I wasn’t ready for that one. I should have seen that one coming a mile away. Of course ANY woman who sees some completely unrealistic sappy shyt like that happen in a movie is gon’ ask that question.

How could I have been so unprepared?

Had I been on my game I’d have said something witty like, “Yeah. I’d have hopped in my Kia and came right on over and scooped you up.”

Or I could have lied. Normally I don’t endorse being untruthful, but it was merited in this particular case.

Not knowing what to say, I froze the hell up.
For too long.

“By your silence I can tell that the answer is no.”

She was correct. It was too late to lie. I had to come clean and admit that her punk ass would’ve been monster food while I was chillin’ in the safe zone eating General Tso’s chicken.

Later she admitted that the logical person in her wouldn’t want me to risk my life.
But the woman in her would want me to come back and save her.

Dog, does that make any sense outside of Woman World??????

One thing we both agreed on? Birthday Boy from the other night DEFINITELY wasn’t goin’ back. For NOBODY! Dude probably would have tried to convince us to go to the club instead of evacuating (“Yo, I ain’t ready to evacuate yet. We can worry about the monster when the club lets out.”)

Oh well. I’ll take my L like a man, gad dammit.

That’s what I get for my momentary lapse in concentration.

Hopefully the fellas out there can learn from my mistake and prepare accordingly.

And ladies, if a dude tells you he’d come back for you—unless his name is Jack Bauer or Magneto—that muhfukka is definitely lyin’.