We’ve got a 9-year-old Whirlpool refrigerator, which I found out today means “Go fuck yourself, piker”. We need a new water filter and our ice cube maker no longer makes ice cubes, which is really the only thing it is good it. I tried in vain to find the water filter in the hope that I might somehow luck into a fix-it-yourself scenario. Lacking as I am in certain “life” or “man” skills, we decided we’d turn it over to the pros. My wife consulted Al Gore and via Yelp she decided on a reputable refrigeration repair expert. I make the call today which ended in murderous rage of the day-ruining variety. The SNL skit quality Chicago accent who answered the phone seemed amused that I would be calling him over a 9-year-old fridge which now refuses us ice. He, apparently, “Don’t do dat”. Fair enough, fuckface, what do you do? “Refrigeration repair”. Oh, you repair things which generate man-made cold, do you chap? Then pray tell, what the fuck am I asking you for? “Yeeeaaahh, I don’t do dat. Fer dat, yah should call up Whirlpool durreck”. “Whirlpool what?” “Whirlpool durreck”. “Oh, Whirlpool durreck”. What the fuck? “Yeah, ya’s should just call up Whirlpool durreckly and save yerselfs some money dat way.” “Gotcha, dick, call Whirlpool directly“. Now batting .000 I call Whirlpool durreckly. This begins a journey of customer service and disinterested cold transfers that Odysseus himself would marvel at. The first woman I spoke to actually laughed when I said the refrigerator was manufactured in November of 2004. Already pissed I said “Are you laughing?” “Yes, I’m sorry, what did you say again, 2004?” Yes, we’ve established that we are fucking pikers and choosing to repair an older model refrigerator rather than replace it with a fresh one that looks like the inside of a fucking Apple retail store. We’re moving soon and it doesn’t make sense to replace for 5 months of…….you know what, fuck you and the horse you rode in on, I don’t need to justify why I’m asking, despite the fact that I am now justifying why I’m asking because you are making me feel like a piece of shit. “Okay, let me get you to service…..shitty hold music”. “Hello, this is service!” Repeat above. “Oh, let me get you to customer service.” Yes, pass me around like a doobie at a Phish show, to be slobbered upon by one 2.1 high school GPA after another. Do your worst fuckers! So arriving at Cleveland, Tennessee, having previously spoken to Cleveland, Tennessee, I spent the next 30 minutes with a woman who felt it necessary to inform me every 90 seconds that her “computer is actin’ up”. And don’t we all hate when they do that? She was able to offer me a very enticing extended service package on the 9-year-old fridge that we plan to use for no more than 6 more months, and very thankful was I for that. Now we’re staring down the barrel of a 4-hour service window on a Monday morning for a repair company that charges $75 just to walk in your door and ask to use the shitter, knowing they have your tit, full well, in the proverbial ringer.
What is the moral to this shitty, uninteresting story? If your refrigerator shits the bed you’d better hope that you live close to your younger, handy brother. And if the asshole is indecent enough to not live near you (despite the fact you were the one who moved far from the nest, regardless fuck him), then just walk into the appliance showroom, drop your trousers to the floor, apply a generous dollop of Vaseline to your corn-crusher and grab your ankles. Give me the ol’ in-out, in-out, durreckly.