If You Need Your Refrigerator Repaired, Just Kill Yourself

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.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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