Dear Mr. Agency Contact...

Dear Mr. Agency Contact,

Thank you, assdart, for coalescing into everything that I hate about working at this job. You have somehow cobbled together a piece of shit network that is magically everyone else’s problem when it fails to perform as you desire. For whatever small-minded shortsighted cranio-rectal reasons, you have decided to put ONE of your 15 sites on my network. Every other site runs at the absolute slowest speed that this industry even recognizes as a viable media. Even better, your other systems are connected over PRIVATE SECTOR circuits, which you never seem to have circuit ID numbers for. You can’t even fucking MONITOR the Ma and Pa Kettle fucking connections you have, you little scrotum elf. So how bout next time your whiny ass calls in, you stop to consider the fact that it isn’t MY bridge that’s having the problem, it just might be YOUR FUCKING BEDROCK-ERA CONNECTIONS TO THE REST OF THE WORLD!!!

Threaten me with trading in your equipment again, prickweasel. That was the only thing in the entire conversation that I actually enjoyed hearing. Trust me, if it weren’t for our section chief trying to be the fucking savior saint of customer help, my supervisor and I would have long ago shoved your system up your ass and tried to set up a connection by repeatedly kicking your balls. I hope against all hope that you find a way to get out from under our umbrella completely, for that day will find me dancing wildly in the streets. Nothing, short of discovering the secret of autofellation, would make me happier.

Your network is run like old people fuck: it’s slow, it’s sloppy, nobody remembers where all the parts are, and it’s vaguely nauseating to people who know what they’re looking at.

In short, crawl off, nut scab. Crawl off.
Dear Mr. Other Stupid Fuckface Agency Contact,

Yes, sir, the card that I told you was responsible for your service outage is, indeed, made of carboard. Each and everyone of our circuits is based around cardboard, that most wondrous of space-age communications materials. Yes, the Internet is run completely on discarded Froot Loops boxes and used cardboard tampon applicators.

By the way, the card that failed was the Jack of Diamonds. Now run along and plug your monitor box into the wall.


I can only hope to sit at the feet of the master and learn.
Please, continue.

Fleep, I love you.
And I lost your email addy again, I think I misplaced it somewhere between here and Oz. I miss the personal rants I used to get. This one will get me by for a few days, though, I’m sure.


This is art. Pure art.


This is the funniest thing I have read in the Pit in a while. I have been sitting here laughing for 5 minutes.

Thank you for that vivid visual. I really needed it. You have just made my day.

My sweet jesus, this is the funniest thing I’ve read in days.

nutscab, 100% genius.

First off, I’m glad everyone enjoyed this. Blowing off the vitriolic steam in here helps, but to know that other were amused by it makes the whole thing suck a little less. Many days, the only thing on the menu is shit sandwiches, but things like this remind you there’s still ketchup for your fries.

On the off chance you’re still about, grashopper, I think you’ve learned all I can teach you. Sorry to see you go.

The one in the profile is good for home-I’ll send you the work one.

So, what do scrotum elves do all day? Hang around?

Are they like car-key gnomes?

The mind boggles . . .

(Me too on the other good bits already mentioned, especially the old people fucking line. That’s a keeper.)