Listen up, Chase Bank: I do not now, nor will I ever, want one of your fucking credit cards. Sending me five pieces of mail every week is not going to convince me otherwise. In fact, at the moment I’m pricing sniper rifles on the Intertoobs and shopping for super-saver fares to Wilmington, DE where all you rapacious banking and insurance assholes hide out to avoid paying taxes. Don’t keep pissing me off.
I ran up against my storage limit last week, and found that I no longer could archive my email in my folder on the company drive as the company policy had changed on this due to lack of space. When I pointed out that I had to use shared computers on the shop floor that were all several years old and likely to fail at some point, the Wonderboy from IT actually recommended that I bring in a thumb drive. I was floored by this. Am I, an electonic tech, actually more clueful about network security than the people that are responsible for my company’s network?
I feel ya, Chefguy. When we were shopping for a mortgage, we went to the bank that we do all our banking with, and he kept on trying to sell us a Mastercard from his bank. Dude, no means no - we had Mastercards, and we got rid of them because they suck. We don’t want another one, and we also don’t want you to keep trying to make us get another one. He was about one, “Are you sure you don’t want to fill out this Mastercard application?” away from me losing my temper a little bit.
Do we really need a hundred music album polls in Cafe Society? At this rate, we should be through the entire music catalogue of the history of the world in about a year.
Give it a rest, people.
Leg cramps in the middle of the night. TWICE. The first time I awoke drenched in sweat, had to get up, limp to the bathroom and wash up a little. The second time was 7:30am, and I ended up staying up - on my day off when I should have been able to sleep in.
Each time it was with the vague, now forgotten dream that it was connected to something else that was bothering me. Yeah, I know, stress related. Just fuck off already, Mr. Stress.
Oh, so I have to have a Yahoo Mail Plus account to get access to your POP3 server? So I can forward my email to another account? More or less, therefore, having to pay to STOP using your email?
You know what, eat me.
On a related matter – every time I log on to one of my on-line credit card or bank accounts, they won’t let me log off without begging me to sign on to the on-line only account system – you see, sending me all the hard copy of my account details is ruining the environment. But it’s hard to take them seriously when they send me dozens of cash advance checks and other promotional offers every year. Truly, I want hard copies of my bills because you schmucks don’t keep on-line records going back 18 months which I need at tax time. And I don’t want your promotional offers – I refinanced my house 16 months ago, why would I want to do it again? Fuckers.
If you use the word “cos” instead of because, I will completely disregard anything you say and will forever picture you as a mentally deficient monkey.
IMHO…college students should not be allowed in bars. In any entertainment district, there is a reason why the locals groan and say ‘here come the amateurs’ when the fall semester starts up. Attn college students: when the bar is spinning, you’ve already drank too much. You do NOT need one more jäger shot, and when the bartender cuts you off, dont get pissy. Binge drinking doesn’t make you look cool, and even if you don’t remember doing it, puking in the bar will get you banned. If you get banned from a bar, they aren’t being uncool. They just identify you as a pain in the ass and you will spend far less money than it is worth to deal with your silly shit.
fucking bipolar Texas weather. overnight 20 degree temperature changes are bullshit.
I just saw my first Christmas commercial today - September 26th. Bloody hell. Each year I hate the deluge that much more - I guess it’s time to start watching tv exclusively on tape delay. God, I hate Christmas commercials.
i loathe most commercialized Christmas crap. This, though, may make you smile.
Carnival Cruise Lines, I love you. Really, truly do. But I know that tomorrow, you’re gonna call me. You call me the day after every time I visit your website and search for a cruise. It’s a little clingy – hasn’t anyone told you you’re supposed to wait at least 2 and more like 3 days to call after a date?
Word. Geez.
I wish I had been there! I love Jerome!
Not until we’ve had a Tom Petty poll!
Heh! You may be on to something there…we had an incident a few years ago where we were told to surrender all documentation (including emails) pertaining to some legal unpleasantness with a certain corporate entity.
Sadly enough, it’s the baby’s father that’s acting like this on the air…and to hear him talk, he’s the only one who interacts with the child.
The thumb drive was never even suggested. I do have a company-issued thumb drive; however, I have no way to secure it, and it’s damaged (files placed on it may or may not be usable the next time you access them).
Apple store? You suck.
In early June 2009, TheKid bought, with her own money, a monster iPod classic, 160GB. Fast forward to mid-June 2010, the hard drive died. Off to the Apple store, they were kind enough to replace it with a refurbished model, despite it being 10 days past warranty.
Fast forward 92 days. Ninety two. Hard drive on the refurb went wonky again. Off to the Apple store. Guess what? Warranty on refurbs are good for 90 days. But hey, we’ll give you 10% off on a new one.
I sure as hell do not have money for a new iPod, nor does she.
She is never without her iPod. She doesn’t need another 160GB one (she only has 17GB used), but her without it is like a cat without whiskers. Just not right. It was TWO days past warranty. TWO. Feh.
You fucking *kidding *me? I’ve been waiting on these back-to-back cool fronts ever since they forecasted them. Jumping up and down on one foot like a kid that has to pee. The motherfucking humidity is finally GONE. I want to bottle this weather, put it in a jar labelled “Happiness.”
Aaaaaand … I’m turning into a goddamn broken record on these mini-rants, but the Old Faithful-esque frequency might amuse, so:
Another Monday morning, another forgotten Dr. Pepper in the breakroom freezer. Bitch, seriously, set an Outlook reminder, or an alarm on your fancy-pants phone, or something. I mean, I’m glad you clean it up each time someone (read: me) points it out to you, but don’t you have something better to do with your time?
This is about as mini a rant as you can possibly get, but…
Don’t ask me if I want something if you’re just going to give it to me anyway after I say no. Yeesh.