Blow me if I wasn’t right after all.
And lucky for TelCo management, I was.
Our T-1, the telephonic/data backbone of our office; our lifeline to such essential business tools as Sudoku and Word Whomp; our gateway to the magical realms of Jell-O porn (“There’s always womb for Jell-O™!”) was been mostly down for the last month.
This makes it very difficult to sell the company, or more importantly, blog from work. This has been exacerbated by the fact that I’ve had to chaperone two accountants that are entirely too competent for my comfort. More on them later.
So, as I was saying, we have this intermittent outage of all our telephony. I called our T-1 provider on the 16th of February. They promised that they will test the lines immediately. I pointed out that since the lines are currently up, their tests may not be as fruitful as they think. “No problem!” They reply. It turns out that their testing will shut down our lines. Sorted!
Erm, not really. I call them again.
And a few times after that.
Finally, I find one tech that has a demonstrable IQ. He is not an eggplant like the rest of the TelCo employees, and he quickly determines that the problem is between the Verizon Smart jack, and TelCo's internal equipment in our facility. A technician shall be dispatched to us, forthwith, who is also not an eggplant.
Now I don’t want to give anyone the impression that I’m a vegist, or anything like that. After all, some of my best friends are Vegetable-Americans. But let’s face it; eggplants are rather stupid. I eagerly await the non-eggplantish tech.
It turns out to be an eggplant after all. He replaces some of the equipment and promises to come back for the rest of it. Sadly, he must have been jumped by a celebrity chef and ended up babba-ghanoushed, for he never returns.
Days pass. The Eggplants determine that it must be their cabling that is at fault. I wonder aloud if they might come out and replace it.
The concept has not occurred to them. After mulling it over, they think that, yes, replacing cable might just solve the problem of the faulty cable.
Huzzah! We are getting somewhere!
Then I get a call from their manager. I shall not use his real name, for I have no desire to be sued. Besides I have always enjoyed the act of Rogering. For the balance of this narrative, he shall be known as “Mr. Bugger Mansfield” as I trust I would enjoy Buggering substantially less than Rogering. Anyhoo, Bugger intimates that their line is no longer their problem, but Verizon’s. Verizon shall be dispatched to fix it.
There is a problem with this. Verizon has responsibility up to the Smart Jack. TelCo owns the lines up to their equipment. Our responsibility is on the other side of TelCo's equipment. Verizon politely demurs resposibility and states that Mr. Bugger Mansfield must be an eggplant, or worse. I cannot disagree. I call Mr. Bugger back and he now states it’s our problem as his techs used an old existing line when they installed the T-1.
“Would that be the old line with the exposed crimp splices that are under the leaky gutters?” I ask.
“Yes. That line was pre-existing, so it’s your problem.” Bugger replies.
“If that line were not there during installation what would you have done?” I ask.
“Well, obviously we’d have put a new one in.” He answers in a tone that indicates he thinks I’m dimmer than an Irish setter.
“And, considering the installation was free, how much would that have cost us?”
“So, you’re penalizing us for the fact that your install techs did a shoddy job.”
“Yes.” He says. “That’s company policy.”
Three cheers and a tiger for globalization! We’ll be running the world in no time with companies like these!
Well, as long as we can get a dial-tone, that is.
Roger has had a change of heart and has his techs out here in force to solve the problem. It shan't cost us a penny, either. Apparently,my bitching, moaning and whinging hit a nerve and rather than having to keep listening to me, they decided to replace the entire cabling.
See? Being an annoying whingy bastard hath its benefits.
The Anti-Macassar Liberation Front
Newark International Airport. It is the gateway for the upper East coast of the United States. It has been said that if you wait there long enough, you will see all the types of people that travel to and from the United States.
I am not talking about the better, moneyed sort; those fly in and out of JFK. I am talking about the baser, vile, detritus of mankind. The sort of people that write blogs, or worse yet; read them.
As I was standing in a Continental ticket queue, I had the opportunity to test that theory. After only the third hour in line, I bumped into an old school chum, or rather, he into me.
“Hey, no cuts!” I proclaimed indignantly, before recognizing him. “Well, I’ll be! Thompson, is that you?”
“At your service!” He replied magnanimously, whilst cutting in front of me. “Have you heard from any of the gang?”
“Well, I did hear of Napier Minor.” I replied, really wanting to rag him out for cutting.
"Well, you recall that Napier Minor was a strange lad, chock full of odd thoughts like being a credit to his parents and bringing academic honor to the school. While he was clearly off his rocker, he was harmless and I felt sorry enough for him to want to help. " I always was the noble sort.
"Do go on." Said Thompson."Well, since Harry Wilson was at Number 10 at that time, the National Health wouldn’t treat such disorders, so we had to help him out as best we could. "
"Yes....." Thompson didn't appear to like where the conversation was heading.
"You must recall that the school’s wiring was too decrepit to be able to shock him back into reality. Though we tried valiantly; we only managed to burn down the gymnasium. It was then that we turned to a novel American treatment; the 'Swirly'."
Now, a swirly is administered by placing the patient’s head in the bowl of a commode and flushing, sometimes repeatedly. The icy cold water would shock the patient while simultaneously styling his hair into a charming soft-serve ice cream cone appearance.
A few weeks of this treatment did the trick, and henceforth Napier would assiduously avoid the classrooms; especially if we were there.
The ungrateful boy never thanked us, and took up the hobbies of sobbing uncontrollably and bed wetting, but we all supposed that those were far less crippling social defects than blowing our grading curve.
"Yes, I vaguely recall it." Thompson repied uncomfortably. He damn well should remember it, he was manning the flusher.
“Well, sadly Napier's condition deteriorated and eventually he sank so low as to take a Nu Labour seat in Parlaiment."
"Ghastly!" Said Thompson, trying to edge away. I moved closer.
"It gets worse!" I said conspiratorially. "Last year, he came over all ‘Lord Byron’ and went off to join the Anti-Macassars in their struggle to free the Chaise region from Ottoman influence.”
“Are you taking a piss on me?” Thompson asked suspiciously.
“Actually, yes I am. Quite literally.” After all, I’d been in line for three hours and had a fullish bladder.
The Piddling Pup
Certain recent, and rather smelly events make this topical. Author unknown.
A farmer’s dog came into town,
His Christian name was Rex,
A noble pedigree had he,
Unusual was his text.
And as he trotted down the street,
‘Twas beautiful to see,
His work on every corner,
His work on every tree.
He watered every gateway too,
And never missed a post,
For piddling was his specialty
And piddling was his boast.
The City Curs looked on, amazed,
With deep and jealous rage,
To see a simple country dog
The piddler of the age.
Then all the dogs from everywhere
Were summoned with a yell
To sniff the country stranger o’er,
And judge him by his smell.
Some thought that he, a king might be,
Beneath his tail a rose
So every dog drew near to him
And sniffed it up his nose.
They smelled him over one by one,
They smelled him two by two,
And noble Rex, in high disdain
Stood still till they were through.
Then just to show the whole shebang
He didn’t give a damn,
He trotted in a grocery store
And piddled on a ham.
He piddled in a mackerel keg.
He piddled on the floor.
And when the grocer kicked him out,
He piddled through the door.
Behind him all the city dogs
Lined up in instinct true
To start a piddling carnival
To see the stranger through.
They showed him every piddling post
They had in all the town
And started in, with many a wink,
To pee the stranger down.
They sent for champion piddlers,
That were always on the go.
Who sometimes did a piddling stunt,
Or gave a piddle show
They sprung these on him suddenly
When midway through the town;
Rex only smiled and polished them off,
The ablest, white or brown.
For Rex was with them, every trick,
With vigor and with vim.
A thousand piddles, more or less,
Were all the same to him.
So, he was wetting merrily,
With hind leg kicking high,
When most were hoisting legs in bluff,
And piddling mighty dry.
On and on, Rex sought new grounds,
By piles and scraps and rust,
Till every city dog went dry
And piddled only dust.
But on and on went noble Rex
As wet as any rill,
And all the champion city pups,
Were peed to a stand still.
Then Rex did freehand piddling,
With fancy flirts and flits
Like “Double Dip” and “Gimlet twist”
And all those latest hits.
And all the time, this country dog,
Did never wink or grin.
But piddled blithely out of town,
As he had piddled in.
The city dogs conventions held
To ask, “What did defeat us?”
But no one ever put them wise,
That Rex had diabetes.