No Cellin' But I'm Still Gellin'

I'm convinced that if you brought in the top business consultants and asked them to devise a customer service program that was totally inept, completely inefficient, and devoid of any concern or compassion for the customer, they would not be able to come close to what Sprint Telephone has done, apparently unintentionally. From the moment you walk in the door, their retail center reeks of apathy, no make that disdain.
For starters you walk in, but you're not allowed to ask any questions or speak with a representative until some punky little teenager decides she's ready to take your name, password, social security number, blood type, mother's maiden name, and whatever else she wants. She then enters you in a system and your name pops up on a giant screen proclaiming to all that you are the latest victim of their sadistic customer service games.
Next, you stand around and watch as the various Sprint employees engage in conversation with one another, and apparently school chums, boyfriends, and whomever else happens to be sitting around. There doesn't appear to be any rhyme or reason as to when they decide to call your name.
It's not like they're finishing up with someone else or working on something. They're just sort of wandering around the store, sipping cokes and downing Subway sandwiches.
Finally they call your name. It's just a tad more difficult having access to one of their reps than obtaining an audience with the Pope. And then you step forward to one of their work stations (and I use the term "work" quite loosely).
Now you go through the same set of questions in order to be allowed to tell them what your problem is. And finally, you've cleared security and they take your phone and tell you that sometime in the not too distant future there's a chance you'll get it back.
I had to leave my phone with them overnight because by the time I had jumped through all their hoops their technicians had gone home. The next day I make a thirty minute drive back to their store to pick up my repaired phone. Only one problem. They couldn't fix it. They couldn't tell me that the night before because the representative who looked at the phone only knows how to punch buttons on his computer.
So then I'm told that a replacement phone will arrive in three to five business days. They have a store filled with phones, but I have to wait three to five days for my replacement to come in.
Eventually, I get the phone call telling me my new phone has arrived. I spend another thirty minutes driving to the store. After going through top level security clearance one more time, my rep wanders around the store, looking for my new phone. Evidently they play a little game of hide the phones with each other. My rep went from work station to work station and finally found my phone.
I asked him about getting the phone numbers from my old phone transferred into my new phone. He told me that would take three hours. Three hours? I could enter everything manually in thirty minutes, but it's going to take them three hours to hook a little wire up and download numbers. I told them to forget it, and asked that they just print out a list of my phone numbers. They agreed, but that also takes three hours. I guess I just didn't understand how busy these people are, what with entering names, drinking Cokes, and chatting with friends, and all.
So, I told them I'd come back later to pick up my list of numbers. Before I leave my rep informs me that it could take anywhere from fifteen minutes to two hours for my phone to be activated.
About an hour later my phone rings. I answer but the caller can't hear me. I try calling the caller back. He answers. I can hear him, but he can't hear me. So, I go to a land line and call Sprint's Customer Service Department. Yes, I agree, I am a glutton for punishment.
The lady tells me that the reason no one can hear me is that my phone hasn't completely been activated. Being the fool I am, I believe her. "If it's not working within two hours of the time you got it, call us back," she says. She sounds pleasant. I thank her and hang up. I look at my watch. It had been an hour and fifty-eight minutes, but, hey, I'm a patient guy. I wait another half hour. My phone still doesn't work, so I call Sprint back.
This time a lady with only a rudimentary working knowledge of the English language listens to my complaint and glibly informs me that it takes four hours to activate.
"Four hours?" I ask. I was told it would be no more than two hours.
She listens patiently, and then explains, "Four hours is what it takes."
"Well, why did two people tell me it would be two hours, maximum?" I ask. "Four hours is twice as long as two hours," I explain.
This time she understands my frustration and replies, "Four hours. That's what it takes." Yes, my blood is now boiling.
"I need to speak with your manager," I say.
"Currently there are no managers here," she says. At least she can say something other than "four hours."
"I don't believe that," I say, now somewhat screaming. "You're not working in a vacuum. Put a manager on the phone."
"That will take thirty to forty-five minutes," she says.
I know their games. I've played them before with the Sprint folks. "I'll give you five minutes," I demand. Although I have no idea what I'd do when the five minutes are up. But, she puts me on hold and, lo and behold, within five minutes one of their non-existent managers is on the line.
I explain my concerns. He apologizes and says that my inability to be heard on my phone has nothing to do with activation. I ask him if it's Sprint's policy to just give any answer that succeeds in getting the customer off the phone.
He's actually pretty nice. He doesn't really give me a straight answer, but he does offer to credit my account thirty dollars to compensate for my frustration. Actually, my frustration had reached about the forty-five dollar range, but I've learned from experience to take the money and run before they get mad at me and withdraw the offer.
Anyway, I had to make another thirty minute drive back to the Sprint store. By now, I've had enough. I demand satisfaction. I want a working phone now and I let them know, in no uncertain terms, that I will not settle for anything else.
Long story short: I get to go back in three to five busines days and pick up another new phone.
Now, you tell me...could you come up with anything that begins to compare with that degree of service?

Don't Read This. Please!

I’ve come to a rather shocking conclusion. It’s taken me half a century to get to this point, but due to a series of experiences recently, I’ve been forced to conclude that reading is fundamentally dangerous.
If I were you, I wouldn’t even read this. But, in case you haven’t quite reached the same conclusion as I have, I’ll explain. Up until now, I’ve always been a rather avid reader. I love (or loved) reading.
I didn’t really get hooked on it until the first grade when I was introduced to Dick, Jane, and Sally, and let’s not forget Sally’s teddy bear, Tim (I think). My first textbook was “The New Here We Come and Go.” Talk about a good read, a real page-turner, if you will, that book had it all…suspense, intrigue, a warm close family, everything.
But, that was yesterday and yesterday’s gone. I came across a children’s book recently. It was right there on the shelf in the children’s section of a major book retailer. The title of the book was, “Daddy Has a New Roommate.” I’m sorry to inform you that “The New Here We Come and Go” has Come and Gone.
When I saw the title, my mind instantly jumped to a conclusion. But, I also concluded that I must just have a sick, twisted mind. So, I picked the book up mainly to assure myself that it wasn’t what I was thinking it was about. Guess what. It was exactly what I was thinking it was about.
Seems that in this story, written for third or fourth graders, Billy’s dad has moved out of the home and is now living with his new love. It’s not Dick and Jane anymore, kids. It’s Dick and Ed. Obviously the book is designed for kids who have a parent who has decided to come out of the closet.
The book glosses over the emotional trauma of parents splitting up. Even if one takes the Seinfeldian approach regarding homosexuality that “there’s nothing wrong with that,” isn’t there something wrong with a dad leaving his family so he can go have sex with someone else?
Based on the message of this book, the answer would be a resounding, “NO.” Not only is there nothing wrong with it, this book promotes the idea that it’s only natural to give in to those primal urges regardless of the implications. The last page of the heavily illustrated book shows the son sitting on the floor watching TV. Behind him, on the couch, are his dad and his dad’s male partner snuggled up with each other. Ah, young love. The perfect nuclear family, I guess. The text on the last page reads, “Mom says Dad is happy now. And, if Dad is happy, I’m happy.” If Dad is gay, are you gay, too?
What a heartwarming message. Do you see why I’m giving up on reading?
There are other valid reasons for concluding that reading is fundamentally dangerous. For instance, if all those Muslims never read the newspaper, they would never have seen those cartoons. All this rioting and murdering could have been avoided if they just had stopped reading. Wake up people.
I had been thinking about all these things recently, and had even been toying with the idea that reading might not be all that it’s cracked up to be, but what really drove the whole thing home was my recent visit to the Richmond Public Library’s main branch on Franklin Street. If you want a real wake-up call as to the dangers of reading, just visit the library.
I had always been under the assumption that reading bred success. But, based on my library visit, I’m not so sure. When I was there the other day, the only people (other than myself and the librarians) there were homeless people. They were sitting around reading newspapers and magazines. This may sound rude, but the stench was nauseating. These people were filthy, truly. And, they were all reading. Do you see my point? If reading led these people to become what they have become, then my advice is, “Stop reading!” Stop now before it’s too late.
I’ll tell you how bad it’s gotten at the public library. And, I’m not making this up. There’s now a Richmond Sheriff’s office in the main lobby of the library. Reading has such a negative impact on folks, that just bringing readers together in a public place necessitates police protection.
So, please, listen to me. Make this the last thing you ever read. Stop reading today or it may be too late. If you’re so addicted to reading, and you can’t stop, and you wake up one day, lying in the gutter, and you find yourself homeless and dirty and wandering the public library, looking for something to give you some sort of temporary literary fix, just don’t come whining to me. And don’t even bother to write me a letter of complaint, because I assure you, I won’t be reading it.