I live a scant 40 miles from downtown Chicago.
You would think I lived on a mountaintop in Tunguska.
I cannot get a decent ISP here to save my fucking life.
I am forced to deal with one of two choices: B.O.Hell or some cheesy local provider.
I choose B.O.Hell because it offers the most. Yeah, I know, I can get all that stuff elsewhere, but it’s nice because the wife and mom and daughter can use it without a lot of intervention from Yours Truly.
But this being bounced offline has just got to stop.
I signed on to my favorite site, good old SDMB, early this PM to see how my favorite fellow posters were doing.
Three times now, in the middle of posting, I get knocked offline. Having to re-write my posts etc. Today is fairly normal; often it’s ten or twelve times in as little as an hour.
And yes, I do know how to use *70.
I can get to my dial-up RAS connection at the office, no problem. And stay there for HOURS. And NEVER GET KNOCKED OFFLINE. And oh yeah, I don’t have to PAY for that. So there’s nothing wrong with my phone lines, my computer, my modem, or anything else.
It’s your service that is knocking me offline. And I’d like it to stop. I’d like you to get your fucking act together and PROVIDE the service I’m paying so dearly for. Or provide it for free.
Here, I put money in Steve’s pocket, and he can’t even provide me with a decent dialup. Hell, it was several years before it was a local call. My phone bills used to be astronomical- once, more than 750 bucks.
So I’m typing this offline, to copy/paste when I do manage, once again, to establish connection with the outside world.
(DISCLAIMER: This rant is NOT directed at any of the fine employees of B.O.Hell. They have always been there for me to help me in anyway they can. Please, don’t take this personally)
So here are a few suggestions for you, B.O.Hell:
Why don’t you go take a flying fuck at a rolling donut on a gravel driveway?
Why don’t you take a sweet lick off the creamy end of my fuckstick?
Why don’t you set a weasel on fire and stuff it down your shorts?
Why don’t you chew the bacon stripes out of the underwear of the Hungarian Milita?
Why don’t you use your fancy china to scrape the gooey dog crap out of my neighbor’s backyard?
Why don’t you go find the biggest saguaro cactus you can find, spray it down with Ben-gay, and fuck yourself with it, repeatedly, wait until the bleeding stops, lather, rinse, and repeat.
And while I’m waiting for you to do that,
Fuck you.
Fuck the horse you rode in on.
Fuck the parents of the horse.
Fuck each and every one of the people on the executive board at B.O.Hell. Several times. With a flagpole.
Fuck the recycling-bin surplus 386 modem servers you apparently use everywhere on earth.
Fuck the morons who thought automatic logoff after inactivity periods was a good thing.
Fuck the popularity that has caused you to grow into the juggernaut of mindless evil you have become.
And most of all,
Fuck you Steve, you puffy, raw, swollen headed purulent sack of festering pus. Fuck you with a red-hot poker in places you don’t even have orifices to fuck. Fuck your family, fuck your friends, and fuck your fucking fuckstick. Fuck the toe jams in your shoes. Fuck the slimy deodorant residue in your armpits. Fuck the flecks of white foam left on your face after you brush your teeth. Fuck the hair on your head and any other part of your body. Fuck everything you see from the moment you open your eyes in the morning until the moment you close them at night. Fuck everything you dream about; fuck the people in the dreams, and fuck the relatives of the people in the dreams. Fuck your imaginary friends, and while you’re at it, fuck your inner child, as well.
B.
