No Cable, No Popcorn, No Patience

Fuck Time Warner in the ass with a white-hot, rusty, steel-splintered crowbar. Yes, the rounded side is wider and turns into a hook out the out-stroke! Yay pain!

This morning, I noticed the cable wasn't working. The internets is alive and breathing somehow through the same cable line, but none of the bright-flashy-stare-thingy TV. So tonight I miss Jericho. Tonight I miss Bill Moyers. Tonight (snizzleshit!) I miss Lost.

And this whole process would be much more serene with one less agitation: Our phone number is one digit from the cable company's phone number. As I'm sitting here, stewing in not being connected to a couple of my TV shows, I get to tally up almost 20 phone calls "Um, is this Time Warner?" "Yes. You and all the other thousands of idiots ringing the cable company will get busy signals until, one time, they answer. And they will say 'hello.' No, retard. Wrong number." No, I never actually said that. But I could. I only need wait another ten minutes.

Funny level 2 (in the past) is when they ring the house, no one's home, and they hear "Hey, you've got Ricky, [Mrs. Shambles], and [Rickina]. Please leave a message." And I hit the button when I get home and hear "Yeah, my cable's been out for about four hours. When you gonna get the trucks out here? Call me back!" High larious. Almost makes me forget about crowbars and asscheeks.

So in lieu of actual content, I guess I can give a local commercial since I've been bulking up the Bad Business blog next door.

I give you Frank Myers Auto Maxx.



Weep for our children.

Crap, I gotsta go. Phone's ringing.