Are You American?

Here’s the post that started it all. My interaction with this asshole was so ridiculous I had to write it down, thus creating this blog. In a way, I want to thank the guy. Then I realize he’s a piece of shit.

Customer: “Are you American?”

My redneck meter is immediately going off the charts. Congratulations, you haven’t been outsourced to India, please don’t double check by asking for my passport, green card, or how I voted in the last election.

Winston: “As far as I know, how may I help you?”

Customer: “Well I’ve been on the phone all fucking day with those damn Philippinos and Injuns, and I am pissed off!”

I hate when people tell me they’re pissed off. You’re either pissed off or you aren’t. That’s like stubbing your toe, and instead of yelling, “Fuck!” you say, “Ouch, that sure did hurt.”

Customer: “These bastards been jogging me around all night. One fucker tried to get all cute with me and pretend to be a supervisor.”

No, I’m sure that poor Indian agent actually did put his supervisor on the phone, but all Indian people probably sound the same to you. In fact, I doubt you could tell the difference between a Mexican and an Asian. It’s a redneck thing.

Winston: “I am very sorry to hear that sir, but I would be glad to help you.”

Customer: “You all keep saying my account is under Jane Smith. Do I sound like a fucking Jane Smith to you?”

No, you sound like a waste of space on this planet, but unfortunately you still exist.

Winston: “I’m sorry sir, but I’m also seeing the account under Jane Smith with this phone number.”

Customer: “God damnit, I said my name is Redneck Piece of Shit!”

Winston: “If you could find your account number I would be happy to look into this further.”

Customer: “Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. Now I’ve got to go upstairs and find my bill. Hold on asshole, this may take awhile, but I’ve got all fucking night!”

Well I don’t have all night, there are other assholes that need me to listen to them bitch about nothing important. Redneck Piece of Shit gives me the account number, and it still pulls up Jane Smith. A shitstorm ensues, as you can imagine, and I get him to calm down enough to give me his “roommate’s” number. This guy is obviously older, so you can imagine my surprise when I find out he isn’t married.

The “roommate’s” number brings up another account, but a lot of the information on there doesn’t match up, and I’m starting to thing we’ve got a fraud issue. Redneck Piece of Shit hangs up once I begin to inquire further. Sadly, he didn’t stay on the phone long enough for me to explain the benefits of joining the army, where he could travel to fun parts of the world, tell them how much he loves Americans and hates Injuns, and see what consequences would come out of that.

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