Head with pig

She remains gone

I got an early morning call from the Vet Vet around 10, which is not nearly as early as I thought it was. I answered on the seventh ring. 

“Hi Vet Vet.”

“Are you sitting down?”

“If you installed that hidden web camera like I suggested you would know that already, wouldn’t you.”

“Now is not the time for joking.”

Vet Vet is a former Green Beret who served our country in two tours in Afghanistan as both a soldier and a dancer in USO shows, plus a tour in Iraq, solely as a dancer, but still, it was war time and I did no service at all. When Vet Vet returned from the war he got a degree in Veterinary medicine, thus the double Vet Vet name. Plus both Gren Berets and Veterinarians are not known for their sense of humor.

“When is the time for joking, cause you should call back then.”

“Seriously, I have some unfortunate news.”

“Please don’t tell me my dog is dead.”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your dog is dead.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“She died in surgery.”

“She was in surgery?”

“Sex change surgery, you didn’t know?”

“Well, I always knew she was more butch than bitch, but I did not know of her plans for a change in positions.”

“Well, she came in yesterday.”

“She came in by herself.”

“No, she came with her lover.”

Yeah, her lover. Oh, I could tell you all about her “lover”. You know, if Rick Santorum needs a poster couple for everything wrong with gay marriage and the gay lifestyle and the gay everything, it would be my dog and her long time lover Momma Kitty. First of all, I am not sure how committed Momma Kitty is to either her long term lover or to actually the whole gay lifestyle, having birthed no less that 16 children while “committed” to her long term lover, my recently deceased dog. 

I guess now is not the time to complain, plenty of time after the funeral.

“So what you are saying is, my dog came in and demanded a sex change and you did the surgery.”

“Of course not, we did some initial counseling weeks ago.”

“Counseling? You counseled my dog?”

“Well, I gave her some treats, and I showed her pictures of the various types of implants, she didn’t seem to pay much attention. She finished the treats, then she licked herself for a while. That was about it.”

“That’s my dog.”

“Well, that was your dog. She’s gone now.”

“Probably in doggy heaven right now.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. There is no such thing as doggy heaven. Trust me, if there is a heaven and hell, god does not waste space on dogs and cats, and if he has space for dogs and cats you can bet your last dollar that he does not want a sexually confused lesbian Australian Shepard prancing around with a prosthetic penis.”

“Harsh.”

“Just being honest.”

“Well, thanks for that.”

“So, what would you like me to do with the body?”

“Right. Well, certainly you should donate her organs to charity.”

“Already done.”

“And her fur to doggy cancer patients.”

“We did that the minute the cat unplugged the respirator.”

“And I guess you could donate her collar to a dog at the Humane Society.”

“That’s very thoughtful.”

“I’m sorry, did you say something about the cat unplugging the respirator?”

“Yeah, oh, right. Yeah, the cat pulled the plug, we think it was probably an accident. You know how, when a cat gets really black out drunk they do these crazy things like unplug respirators and things like that?”

“Yeah, sure, that shit happens all the time around here.”

“Sure, same here. So, we had installed the dogs new penis and she was just recovering and the cat comes stumbling in the surgery room and is completely wrecked on vodka and high as a kite on a mixture of cat nip and meth and she’s all over the room, pissing on gear and meowing like I’ve never heard. Then she just starts unplugging everything.”

“What did you do?”

“Oh, my cell phone rang, I walked outside to talk for a minute.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, it’s weird, the reception is, like 10 times better outside.”

“That makes sense.”

“Anyway, when I came back in, the cat was passed out and your dog was dead.”

“Completely understandable.”

“So.”

“Yes?”

“About the bill?”

Then my phone went dead. Bad reception goes both ways I guess.

good day

Fall football

Super great new poster for sale

Sometimes there is stuff for sale on this site and this poster represents one of those times.
It is 20X30, unframed. This is the initial printing of 10, all signed and numbered.
$100.
Order below by clicking on the link.

Poster ordering form (of sorts):

Smoke em

String theory

Some lost art

Home in Brooklyn

A weekend in Woodstock

Bike

How Comcast fights to remain the worst company in history

If you have ever wasted the time to read the meandering and nonsensical words on this blog, you know one thing and one thing only, Comcast and I have had a love/hate relationship for a very long time.
For the past 15 months I paid Comcast for high speed internet that was predictable, and on a daily schedule, a lot closer to dialup. I would call Comcast and they would respond by promising to do everything in their power to fix the problem. Literally I would have a Comcast technician over to my house and every single time, not a dang thing changed. Not once did they fix the problem, which is what I came to expect. That said, Comcast proved efficient in billing me for their terrible and inadequate service.
Then last month my house burned down and that was the end of Comcast.
Or so I thought. Today I moved into a temporary apartment and of course I had scheduled to have the super high speed internet only available from Comcast turned on. Of course they promised to send out a technician who would do this sort of thing. Now if you ever watch the big dumb TV you have in your favorite room you have probably witnessed a slew of Comcast commercials where they brag about this new service where they promise to be at your side in a two hour window to take care of whatever ails you.
So, of course, Comcast set a time to stop by my apartment and turn on the magic internet machine. 2:30-4:30 was their magic window. When I called the worst company in the history of all the worst companies in history and asked why no magical technician had bothered to show up, the good person explained to me that the technician screwed up.
Oh?
Imagine that. Well, those Comcast people do know how to lie, so the Comcast phone guy promised me that next Monday another well trained and prompt technician would stop by and internet my life.
Because I trust Comcast like I trust a brain tumor, I offered a compromise, "what say you get your drunken, irresponsible technician to drop by tomorrow?"
Well, of course Comcast offered that, because you and I both know that will never happen. That said, even if one of the amazingly belligerent Comcast technicians does bother to set up some sort of internet machine tomorrow, one thing you could bet every single dollar you have ever had in your possession is this, the promised speed of the Comcast internet system will be just shy of dialup.

A perfect night

The stunning rise and fall of Raltraz

I am not a cat lover, in the least. I fell madly in love with a young Persian named Permer many years ago and when he was gone, I was so broken all I could imagine was that I could never again love a cat.

For the vast majority of my life I thought cats were useless, egotistical and strange. Cats are the boorish bully of the home pet world and for that alone, I avoided them like a plague.

When I accidentally had a number of children, they seemed to attract cats like poo attracts flies. They would come and move on and no one really seemed to notice.

A couple of years ago a daughter of mine was flying out of our local airport for Christmas to some other city at the same time I was returning from somewhere else. We exchanged car keys in the airport and she told me there was a present for me in the downstairs bathroom. I only like presents that are white dress shirts or expensive cycles, neither seemed appropriate for a bathroom present.

When I got home and opened the bathroom door there was a small gray, long haired mess standing rather proudly in a brown puddle of his own making.

To say I was irate would be an abysmal understatement. I don’t like cats, even my own daughter should have known that. His only skill in life seemed to be the relentless manufacture of diarrhea, which meant he would eat, make a mess and I would stick his funky butt under the warm water in the sink, rinse him off and dry him. Within an hour or so, he would eat again and the same scene played out. I kept the cat around, naming him Foxtrot, for a few days, until my daughter returned and we brought him to the local animal shelter, where I was sure we could drop him off and forget about him and his diarrhetic ways.

There was no room at the shelter, no cage, shoe box or anything else acceptable as a short time living place for Foxtrot. They gave him some sort of kitty shot and asked if we could keep him a few more days and they would call when they had space.

We got home, the shot seemed to cure him of his ills and his digestive idiocy and the shelter, to this day, has never called.

Foxtrot soon became Foxtrot Tango, but that only lasted until he started to put on weight and gain a personality that was one part sweet heart and another part desperate crackhead.

That first summer, with temperatures always in the 100’s and Raltraz (his new name) not really understanding the concept of personal hair care, we brought him to a barber and had him shaved down to a very light coating of silky soft fur. He thought he looked like a sexy lion, we had to hold back laughing out loud. Either way, his macho stance and silly demeanor won us over.

He became as much of a friend of our family as our lesbian dog, her tormented and over sexualized lover a vicious and hate filled cat and now this, Raltraz, certainly no intellectual, but his gifts at stoner humor (he began to indulge in catnip as he grew into his teenage years) and his happy willingness to torment his housemates with surprise attacks and racing the stairs made him a rising star in the competition of favorite neurotic family member.

He owned everything. My own bed became his, which he would share, upon request, but mostly, it was his to use. This past winter, when we added a large hand woven rug to the entryway, he thought of it as his own magic carpet. He would run from the far corner of the kitchen, through the doorway and hit the carpet and everything would bunch up against the front door. A couple of these sorts of exploits and it was time for an extended nap, which he would do on the rumpled magic carpet. It was magic and it was his to enjoy.

He was a hunter, a gatherer and a show off of all things Raltraz. He thought of himself as a Jcrew model and so did we. He could strike a pose and hold it and then just disappear onto his next adventure. A little cracky, a little handsome and quickly becoming some family member we could never be without.

I recently caught Raltraz scouting the angry fish we had in my daughters bedroom. This fish was one of those carnivorous beasts that eat anything that comes near the tank. I fed him from a distance, but his slashing and spraying of water which made that endeavor seem life threatening. Imagine my surprise on recent day when I found silly Raltraz with a paw in the fish tank, dangling it in front of the ferocious fish like a furry meal. Nothing came of that interaction that day, but in my heart I knew those two would someday fight it out and I secretly was looking forward to it.

In early April of this year a fire completely destroyed our home and also burned our neighbors house. None of our pets escaped and Raltraz is buried in a mix of brick, plaster, sludge and everything else we once thought of as ours.

When you lose everything you only gain the knowledge that stuff does not define us. That is all, everything else, the photos and the videos and the paintings and the clothes, they disappear in an instant, as do the pets who had only loved us in a way they were comfortable with, which was far more than we had imagined.

Raltraz had done everything to not be part of our family and when the door was open and he joined, it was like we all had been made for one another. He is gone, our dog is gone, our over-breeding cat is gone and the dangerous fish has moved on to bigger waters.

I still believe in the magic of love, even love that has failed in some way, when you open your heart and you love someone, that special bond, maybe broken, still exists in your heart.

Artists working

Timing is everything

NY Times headline of the day

Rattlesnake Wranglers, Armed With Gas

Oh Brooklyn

Merry go round, again

Email mystery

""this yogi absolves you from all (romantic) karma and negative thoughts regarding romance."

The major problem with having any sort of internet blog thing is that strangers send your the strangest of messages. 

Dumb guys explain the hoo haa

The gatekeeper returns after a long winter

I ran into the gatekeeper this weekend. This is no where near as dramatic as that might sound. First, in my neighborhood is remains freezing cold and sometimes it snows. That said, Saturday was the first real taste of Spring we have had and my incredible partner decided that instead of spending the day watching basketball and kissing our dog on the forehead, we decided to break ground.

Around here the frozen tundra looks more like dead grass and frozen dog poop, but organic gardeners are serious people and we are nothing if not dedicated city plant growers. At some point I decided I would need a couple more bricks to finish off a tiny retaining wall I had been working on and I walked down to the community garden. As far as I can tell, whatever is there is for the taking, that is, if you can make it past the gatekeeper.

I had no clue who the gatekeeper was until last summer. It was sometime in July and again I found myself in need of something, maybe a red tomato or some garlic, but as far as I knew, the community garden was an open paradise to find fresh vegetables for free. So I walked down. There was a newly installed wooden gate, made out of obviously salvaged and decrepit wood and in front of it sat an elderly Jewish man who stopped me as I opened it and said, “where you going?”

I met the gatekeeper and learned some valuable lessons that day. First, other people growing vegetables in a community garden are not doing so for my personal nutrition. I also learned that a gatekeeper is a serious job for silly old men. That first time, as he allowed me entry, he quietly put his wrinkled old hand out in search of a tip, or a poll. I only had a ten dollar bill on me and when I told him that, he replied, “that will be sufficient.”

The rest of the summer, when I did venture down to the community garden, I made sure never to have anything larger than a quarter in my pocket. The gatekeeper did not seem to notice or care. He was always there, always opened the gate and every single time he held up his hand in search of a tip, or payoff or something. I would hand over the change in my pocket and enter.

It was getting to be bitterly cold this past saturday afternoon when I went to the community garden in search of some bricks and I was shocked to see the elderly Jewish gatekeeper sitting on an old aluminum fold out chair. He was wearing a nice vintage suit and a battered overcoat and as I approached he asked if I had any business in the community garden and I told him I needed a few bricks to finish a retaining wall. He opened the gate and ever so peacefully his right hand came out of his pocket and he held it flat, awaiting payment. 

Now, it had been months since I had ventured to the community garden and I had only a 20 dollar bill in my picket, which I realized when I dug my hand into my pocket and retrieved it. I looked at it, as did the gatekeeper, and he snatched it before I could clasp my hand shut. We made stern eye contact and he said, “that should make up for last summer.” Then he sat back down on his old chair, pulled his wool beamy down over his  ears, thrust his hands back into his pockets and closed his eyes, like an elderly Jewish Buddha.

Lion sleeping

Birthdays are not that important

I don’t know anything about birthdays. Ask anyone, I am widely known for my inability to remember anyone’s birthday. I was once married and had children and to this day, I have no clue if my former marriage partner person ever had a birthday, nor do I know what that particular day may have been. 

I have children, I was in the rooms that they were birthed in. I have no clue what days those were. Not a single clue. One of them was born on an important holiday, but not Christmas, because we are Jews and Hannukah has no official start date. So I think one of them was born on the fourth of july, but to this day, I am not sure which one it is. 

One child was born on Easter, but that is rather unpredictable on exact day, so year in and year out, we have celebrated that particular childs birthday whenever it was easter. He/She never seemed to mind.

This morning, my most vicious daughter was outside my window making a racket. She does this often enough that I, at first, did not pay it any attention. When a crowd began to form, I looked down onto the street and could see her holding a giant placard in her hands and yammering. I put my glasses on and I could see she was waving one of those giant poster boards that the crazy Kansas church people hold to protest their insanity at military funerals and such. Her sign read “GOD HATES FAGS” is giant letters. At first I found this a little appalling, but then she started singing Happy Birthday to me and all was forgiven.

The problem, of course, was the fact that today was not really my birthday. So it goes.

Imbeciles need some TV watching too

Everyman chapter 3

As you should know, a new chapter of Everyman is being published on the Mergatroid Creative website.
Follow it here. 

Thanks girls

Then there's this

Good news/Bad news

Fred Phelps, the one-time leader of the infamous "GOD HATES FAGS" church, is on his deathbed in Kansas. Hopefully, you can carry on with your day having learned of this terrible news.

A little some some

I closed my eyes and all I could think of was how angry I was at my best friend, a chipmunk. Sure, I am positive that at some point a friend or spiritual advisor warned me not to fall in love with a chipmunk, but I was much younger when I met Billy Bob Chipmunk and now we are just stuck with one another.
Chipmunks age differently than humans, so when I found Billy Bob living on the bumper of my old Ford truck and I asked him what he was doing there and all he could muster was a smile, I knew he could end up being trouble. Of course, at the time, I had no clue what sort of trouble I would end up getting into.
He was young then, but that was eons ago and now he is old and cranky and sometimes cynical and brutish. I forgive everything because sometimes I am the same way.
Billy Bob has long been known for his dancing.
I'm not quite sure how this came about, because at the time we met, I was a professional dancer and he was, well, a chipmunk. Soon enough we were doing double bills at Carnegie Hall and "Shake and Bake," the first a professional theater in New York City, the second, a strip club for stoners in Denver.
As Billy Bobs knees began to give out and his racist diatribes became even more offensive, I had to give up the stage to dedicate my life to my first love, medicine. Sure, I flunked out of med school long ago, but like most doctors working in America, I just faked it. Looking back on my decades as a surgeon I can honestly say that a decent percentage of my patients did not die painfully.
So imagine my shock this week when I found out that Billy Bob Chipmunk had secretly been keeping detailed notes on not only my illegal medical activities, but also my moonshining business. I think I did what any professional surgeon/moonshine provider would do, I brought Billy Bob to the circus and sold him for five dollars.
When I was talking to my shrink yesterday, Dr. Fivingstook, I mentioned that Billy Bob was no longer with me and the good doctor dropped his maniacal on the floor and said, "why that can't be, I saw him just yesterday, performing at "Spangles" which is one of our cities grimiest and disgusting pool hall and frenzy dancing palaces. A lot of people don't even know what a Frenzy Dance Palace is, but then again, we are not in Europe anymore.
That said, life without Billy Bob Chipmunk has been a lot nicer than I could have imagined. My super smart lawyer told me that while my recent chipmunk removal was highly immoral, it was also super legal, which in the end is almost all that matters.
That said, I got a call from a mormon missionary this morning who told me he had spent the majority of the evening drinking illegal moonshine and "talking shit" with a very verbal and racist chipmunk and it was then that I knew, at some point, our paths would again cross.

Happiest headline of the day

IMPORTANT: Are You Cleaning Your Dildo Correctly?

Money and drugs and everything else important

The Wolf of Wall Street Chest Thump Mix from Eclectic Method on Vimeo.

Getting off

)

This must be inspiring

Agate Pass

Feuding, still

Smoke more pot

New Marijuana Study Says Everyone Knows You're High And You'll Likely Be Stoned Forever

I met God at my local pharmacy

I met God the other day.
At least I believe I met god the other day. I was standing in the line at my local pharmacy and this long gray haired Jewish man, with a bad back, was standing in front of me. At no point in particular he turned and with a wry smile on his wrinkled and weathered face he asked, “how ya doing?”
I smiled, because quite honestly, I could not remember the last time anyone had asked me such a caring question, and I replied, “could not be better, how about you?”
“Oye, my back hurts,” God said, “that’s why I’m here. I don’t like to take the pain medication, but it’s the only thing I can do to get any rest.”
“How old are you,” I asked.
“Today? Today I feel like I am a thousand years old.”
“Well, then, you should take all the pain medication you need.”
“Oh I will, but as I said, I don’t like taking it. I have much to do and the medication slows me down.”
“How can you have so much to do, you are obviously quite old.”
“Being old does not preclude you from accomplishment,” God said.
“Well, good luck to you,” I said, without any hint of sarcasm.
“So we are done here?” God asked, almost seeking sympathy.
“Well, I was getting the idea you needed to move on.”
“Not at all, I am enjoying our conversation. You seem like a friendly sort.”
“Oh I am.”
“You do know who I am, yes?”
“An old Jewish man waiting in line at the pharmacy?”

“That is true, but I am more than an old man.”
“Arn’t we all,” I said, that time sarcastically.
“I am a father, and I am more than a father,” God said, with all sorts of intonations that seemed to reveal he was speaking in metaphor. My ears seemed to perk up just a bit and my focus was sharper than I can recall it being in years.
It was right after he said that little poetic mystery that a cashier opened up and waved him over. He walked away from me, in obvious discomfort. I was waiting in line when it dawned on me, that old man was God. I sensed it more than anything, but it was a clear give away when I realized that not only was he in great personal pain (probably from the sins of all humanity) but he was also still finding the time to comfort a stranger and offer sage advice. For a second I closed my eyes and basked in the beauty of my conversation with God.
Another cashier was waving and so I walked up and gave her my name and she turned to get my medication. I looked to my right and God was gone. Just like that. A small miracle because an elderly Jewish man who grimaces when he walks could not just disappear so quickly, unless, of course, he was God.
When the pharmacist assistant came back with my medication, she looked at me and said, “you look blissful, as you sure you even need this medication?”
“Well, I was talking to God a minute ago and now I feel a sense of peace I have never quite experienced,” I said, with a beatific smile on my face.
“Yeah,” she said, “ you totally need your meds.”

Comcast just does not care

Comcast Doesn't Give a F*CK from Tarik Ellinger      

Bruce Springsteen sings Royals

Then this

A good day for this

Yay drunk guy

Worst father of the year is proud to be worst father of the year

The stupid show

Plastic idiot wants to be even more of a plastic idiot

Pot holes and idiocy on pot laws

My car is in the shop today because I was driving on a random street and my front tire was sucked into one of the regions massive pot holes, caused in no part by Climate Change. The problem with my local streets has little to do with the weather and everything to do with the state/county/city not having the funds to keep roads in decent shape.

So I was wondering, where could my stupid state find money to pay for road repairs? Look no further than Colorado you moronic imbeciles who are elected to find ways to fund necessary projects, like roads. This from the Denver Post:
"DENVER—Colorado's legal marijuana market is far exceeding tax expectations, according to a budget proposal released Wednesday by Gov. John Hickenlooper that gives the first official estimate of how much the state expects to make from pot taxes.

The proposal outlines plans to spend some $99 million next fiscal year on substance abuse prevention, youth marijuana use prevention and other priorities. The money would come from a statewide 12.9 percent sales tax on recreational pot. Colorado's total pot sales next fiscal year were estimated to be about $610 million."

Ideology clashing

The never ending Comcast shuffle continues

How does Comcast stay on top as the worst internet provider in history? I decided to look into how a single company can remain terrible constantly for a long period of time.

History: for the last 14 months I have been paying Comcast for something they advertise as “blast” internet service, which promises constantly high speed internet. Never do the speeds match the promise and once I realized that, I jumped right into the rabbit hole of Comcast happy talk and promises made of rare Unicorn meat.

See, the deal with Comcast is pretty simple, promise customers an awful lot and don’t deliver any of it. 

The brilliance of Comcast philosophy is that they seemingly have outsourced all their phone answering technicians to a far off country where English is not even a second, third or fourth language, so when you call, the conversation can only amount to pleasant promises in something that sounds an awful lot like a mix between broken English and Martian. 

What Comcast favors is not only the poorly worded script these terribly paid employees in a bunker somewhere east of China rhythmically announce, but also the monthly visits from actual human technicians, who must get paid by the visit, because a few of these hard working people have stayed for pizza and beer. 

Here is how Comcast handles reports of bad service. First, the far off, non-English speaking employee promises that “with this calt, we make you service work good.” Once or twice, when you hear such a promise, you think to yourself, “finally a Comcast employee dedicated to fixing my terrible service.” Such a thought is really worthless, because I am imagining a call-center in some slum warehouse outside an equally terrible small city, in an even more equally terrible country. These minions have been trained to only say a few things understandably, such as, “this time we get job done” and “I can send technician to your homes and sometime they fix your problem, yes?”

Now, I am not expert of the secret training sessions that Comcast must put every employee through, but my guess is that the training session sounds something like this, “make promises we have no intent on following through on, keep making these promises and when all else fails, mail more empty promises that THIS time all will be repaired.”

I don’t know if that’s an exact quote, but from my own experience, it has to be close. 

So, over the last 14 months I have made countless calls to some far off call center, where the nice man/woman (trust me, it’s impossible to tell the difference) makes promises about repairs and then more promises about how important my call is to them and then at some point sends technicians to my home, who in turn makes more empty promises. 

In the past 14 months I have had eight technicians visit my house. Not the same technician mind you, because sometimes Comcast pretends that someone with superior knowledge and skill with be coming by and repairing my failure of an internet system. Of course, in the grand scheme that is the Comcast customer service protocol, the same home visit will play out as some sort of staged technical ballet. They will walk in, check the current Comcast modem, look at the wires, walk through my basement, put a ladder up against some pole and announce, “we are working to improve the service in your neighborhood.” Then they will get back in their Comcast van, laughing hardily and drive away, only to do the same routine to another Comcast victim somewhere down the road.

One of the most remarkable aspects of dealing with Comcast is how quickly the English speaking employees will tell you that “Comcast has no intention of ever fixing this current problem.” Seriously, I have had numerous technicians in my house over the last 14 months and the vast majority of them have told me the same thing. While they get paid to visit homes and businesses with faulty Comcast service, they hardly ever do anything but test connections, replace perfectly functioning modems and make promises about how the service will certainly be repaired in a short amount of time. When questioned about these promises, a vast majority of the service technicians will tell you the truth, Comcast never repairs anything unless it’s an obvious easy fix. 

Never repair anything. That is true, I have heard that so many times from Comcast employees that I am sure that is the way things work at this megalomaniacal corportation. Part of the problem it seems is that Comcast continues to use cable wires installed up to 30 years ago. Once I asked a Comcast technician when the company might replace the existing elderly non-functional wires in my neighborhood. He laughed and told me it would be wise to just move to a newer community that has newer wiring. “You mean there is no plan to replace the obvious failing wires?” I have asked, incredulously. “Not a chance,” every Comcast employee has told me with a smirk and a shoulder shrug.

Comcast is not only brilliant at making promises that will never happen, but if you are thinking maybe just have your service changed from the promise of super-high speed to a lower cost “average” Comcast internet speed service. I have also asked both the far off customer service people, but I have also put that very question to Comcast technicians standing in my living room. The honest answer I have received countless times is, if I pay less, expect even worse speeds. 

As it stands, I often get speeds just a little faster than dialup. So, I have followed up my query to Comcast technicians by sharing, “I did not think my internet speeds could get worse.” The smiling employee will then let me in on a little Comcast secret, “your service can always get worse with Comcast.”

Former president Ronald Reagan often said that the scariest 9 words a person in America can hear are “we’re from the government and we’re here to help.” Reagan did not live long enough to expect high speed internet in his palatial Los Angeles home, but had he hung on for a few more years I am sure he would have changed his warning to, “we’re here from Comcast and we’d like to fix your internet problem.”

Another reason everyone should get tested

Flavour wrestling for hiv testing, RFSL Göteborg from RFSL Göteborg on Vimeo.

Gay men use the cutest "come on" lines

Pussies with whips take on Pussy Riot at the Olympics

Dancing and prancing

Clocks of Portland

More clocks in Portland

Clock on Apple computer

More from todays Portland clock photo essay.

he Starbucks clock

The traveling clock is visiting a Portland Starbucks

Travels of a clock

An elderly woman is spending the day photographing a clock on her adventures in Portland. Here is one.

Games are good

The shake

Proud or terrified?

The view from the luge seat

Comcast, the worst company in the universe

For over a year I have been trying in every possible manner to get the goofballs at Comcast to actually deliver what they promise, a high speed internet (for which we pay an exceptional amount of money). Instead, I have had what can only be called a master level course on everything that is wrong with large corporations who outsource their customer service to distant lands and never have any plan of delivering the services they promise.

Since January 2013 we have been basically begging Comcast to deliver the high speed internet they are more than happy to charge us for, but seemingly intent on never delivering. Where we live, the only option for higher that dial up service is Comcast, so we are doomed. When we realized that the speeds never met the Comcast promise, we began a dangerous dance with the crummy corporation. 

At least once a month we have welcomed a Comcast technician into our house, and every time we have received the news that something was found that contributed to the lack of real internet speeds. Not once have these “fixes” actually led to the promoted speeds that Comcast is constantly bragging about. 

The best thing about this terrible company is that they have outsourced their customer service phone service, so when you call, you almost always get someone who barely speaks English, but they consistently say, “Hello, my name is Barbie and I am here to make sure we have a solution to your problem.”

Of course, Barbie is never really named Barbie and Comcast has no plan to solve any problem, unless it is a billing issue and then that particular problem is always solved in seconds.

What I have learned over the past 13 months is no matter what the issue, the long distance customer service agent (Barbie) will never solve anything. He/she will promise to get to the bottom of this, then pretend to send this issue to a higher authority and that will be it. When you get finished being beaten down by this stupidity and decide in your best health to discontinue calling this far off land of customer service centers, Comcast will think they have miraculously actually solved an issue. 

That of course is never true. My sense is Comcast is like a bad dog who constantly poops on your best rug and after a month or two of this, you either give on training, or throw out the rug, either way the badly trained dog wins. 

Recently I called Comcast again and asked that somehow they actually figure out a way to deliver their promised speeds. I was told that this was news to them that my speeds remain terrible, since I had not called in 2 months. Instead of actually doing anything to fix the issue, the Barbie of this conversation recommended that I call whenever I experience slow service. I then explained to Barbie that I would be calling every day if that was the only way to get it fixed and Barbie said, “that may actually get your internet repaired.”

So I have added the Comcast customer service number to my favorites and everyday at lunch I call and speak with the latest Barbie and I complain about the slow internet speeds and he/she says that this will be a priority and everything will work out. I am pretty sure nothing will ever come of these phone calls, but at least one Barbie told me that if I ever make it to China we should meet for coffee, so there’s that.

Strangest double headline of the day

"Tarzan finds new Jane"+"Bruce Jenner unveils new look"

Favorite new alein

Marta, the car is in the garage

Winter Olympics always gay

Conan - dead man walking

Lets read the comments from ESPN fanboys on a top prospect announcing he happens to be gay

A top NFL prospect came out today, which is super swell. But instead of that story, which is not really a story since most of the NFL players are kind of gay anyway, but instead of a story of the first top NFL draft coming out and being honest about his sexuality, I find the most important thing to do is read comments on a sports related website.
So, congrats to Michael Sam for being a courageous young American. Here are the reactions of some grown adults posting on the ESPN website, a website open to the entire world at no charge.

Matthew Engel

Why in the hell do gays feel they need to tell the world their private sexual business? No one gives a crap if you take it in the butt

Reply · 252 · 

 · about an hour ago

• 

  Robert Rtype Taylor ·  Top Commenter

  That's what I'm saying!!!!!

  Reply · 55 · 

   · about an hour ago
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  Joseph Fierro · Business Owner at JDF Group LLC

  I totally agree I'm so tired of Gays shoving their anal sex preference down our throats ...

  Reply · 113 · 

   · about an hour ago
• 

  Warren Bolden ·  Top Commenter · Arizona State University at the Polytechnic campus

  looking at you, you probably take it up the butt for cocaine money

  Reply · 295 · 

   · about an hour ago