Get Off My Damn Phone
Dear Cox Communications,
You called me on my hone phone today, we were off on the wrong foot already. My home phone is something of a backup, a handy tool for when the Sprint network takes a swan dive into the Mississippi River or my older relatives want to call without using the newfangled cellurar technology.
I never use it so, when it rang, it was a surprise. But then, when I found out it was you, it almost made sense. You run the phone line, along with my Internet, and its how you contact me when you have questions.
“Is this Mr. or Mrs. Blue?” a sweet female voice rang out from the other end.
“No, this is Mr. Black, I am her significant other and the gentleman of the household, how can I help you?”
The woman on the other end balked. Since my wife and I never did the whole marriage ceremony thing, we have different last names. It’s never been a big deal for us, but I still get some amusement watching morons trip over it like it’s a great sin.
“Are you authorized on the account?” she asked.
“Yes, yes I am,” I answered honestly, thinking that, as usual, you simply needed information or it was a stupid survey.
“Then sir, I have a special offer for you,” she responded.
I knew then I had screwed up.
