Fuck You, Time Warner. Right In Your Fucking Face

In the scrappy, fuck-the-man spirit of the Atlantic Center Target mission, I decided to use this blog to point yet another self-righteous, angry finger at another gigantic, ucaring corporation: Time motherfucking Warner.

Apparently, my little portion of Seventh Avenue in Park Slope is a black hole of unreliable internet service.

The receptionist at my office offered up the theory that mercury is in retrograde as a possible reason why I’m having consistent technology problems. And I was like really, can I have my mail now?

Call me crazy, but I’d rather blame the gigantic corporation that sucks $120 a month from me for cable-and-internet-service-for-shit not working up in here rather than the cosmos, or Miss Cleo, or whatever the fuck (did you know that bitch is a lesbian? Come to think of it, those head scarves did look a little like bananas. See you at Ginger’s everyone).

Let’s talk about this: in the past month, Time Warner has sent out FIVE technicians to my apartment. Every time, they give me a new answer: The problem is outside. No, the problem is inside. Let me replace your modem. Oh, the signal’s bad. Oh, actually, the signal is good, the connection is bad. I DON’T FUCKING CARE. JUST MAKE IT WORK.

Of course, they give you the four-hour window of time where you have to be in your apartment whenever they choose to show the fuck up (and you can bank on the fact that if your appointment is 12pm-4pm, they show their asses up at 3:57pm). That’s 20 hours of my life waiting on a technician (it’s like Waiting to Exhale, but worse)—I have been robbed out of almost a full day of my life, and I still can’t access Melissa Rivers’ Twitter account (Yes, I wasted three hours of my life watching the god-awful Celebrity Apprentice LIVE finale, but that was my CHOICE).

Each time, I call and complain, they tell me that they’re going to send out a “higher” technician. Well, it sounds like all of their technicians ARE high...like 4:20 high. Because none of them can fix my fucking problems (and they always want to know if I have Cheetos).

Honestly, I don’t think I’m shooting for the stars here when I say that when I return home from a long day of trying to sell ads to people who don’t have any money, all I want is electricity, running water, and the ability to watch Motherlover or I’m on a Boat on repeat.

I explained this to Tionne, Time Warner’s customer service representative (who is so thankful that I have chosen Time Warner, BTW) and she couldn’t give me a straight answer, other than to say that they’ll be sending out a foreman tomorrow. My roommate, who will be staying home to let him in, got specific instructions from me: DON’T LET GEORGE FOREMAN LEAVE UNTIL HE FIXES THE PROBLEM.

I ain’t playing.

PS: How am I blogging right now? I was able to steal a wireless connection from somewhere. Thanks, Mikey’s PSlope Penthouse. Couldn’t have done it without you.

[ed note: the Extreme Makeover Home Edition type levels of dedication that Amanda has shown by getting us this blog post under these dire, third-world country circumstances will NOT go unnoticed]