Brace yourself, internets. The Slav is about to get her rant on.
First off, teething baby. I think that says it all, and consider it a cranktastic backdrop to the yarn I am about to spin.
My Macbook Pro has been acting kind of odd for a few weeks now. Every now and then it would randomly shut down with no advance warning -- just "click," and a black screen. It kept happening more and more frequently, so today I sucked it up during First Nap and called AppleCare, who led me through the standard diagnostic crappity crap, proclaimed the problem most likely fixed, and told me to call back if it happened again. Great, thanks. So totally worth the $250 I paid for the extended warranty.
Then the provost's secretary calls to tell me that I've neglected to turn in my timesheet for this month, so I have to haul myself and Cranky McCrankerson up to Richardson to turn it in, because god forbid we have the ability to file these things electronically.
During Second Nap my computer dies again, so I call back, and after more random shit I am told that the additional RAM I installed a couple of weeks ago must be the culprit, so I am to remove it and that will most likely fix the issue. Small problem, though. I had to take the laptop in to the Apple store to have the RAM installed in the first place, not because I am incapable of installing memory, but because I don't own fucking Tinkerbell's phillips-head screwdriver, which is necessary to get behind the goddamn panel. I'm going to spare you the rant about how the Apple Genius wouldn't just HAND me the screwdriver for five minutes so I could stick the RAM in myself right there at the desk but instead made me wait in the fucking line so Grand Emperor Geeksimillian could scurry into the back room and do it himself.
Anyhoo, Radio Shack is closer than the Apple store, so I drive over there, buy some jeweler's screwdrivers, and come back home only to find that fucking HERCULES, when installing my additional memory, decided that he was going to seal that panel tighter than an old nun's asshole. MY THUMB HAS A BLISTER, people. It's all red and swole and STILL HURTS from the 20 FUCKING MINUTES I spent trying to unscrew these tiny little screws of Satan.
You guessed it, though: I take out the RAM and the computer still shuts down. Awesome. During my THIRD phone call to AppleCare, they took pity on me and bumped me up to Tier 2 service, which you'd think would lessen the moron factor but yeah, not so much. Now I am supposed to loop the hardware test off the install CD for THREE HOURS with the power cord plugged in and wait for it to die. I make it an hour and a half before I pull the plug just for grins because a few weeks ago I'd read something on Gizmodo about a silent recall of early Macbook Pro batteries so I figure what the hell, last resort before they make me reinstall the operating system because you KNOW that's what phone call #4 is going to be about. Hey, guess what? Computer dies in 10 minutes.
At this point I'm so enraged at the AppleCare asswipes that I call the nearest Apple store and just ask if they have the right battery in stock and drive over there, all the while imaging what delights I might have been able to engage in today had I not spent two fucking POINTLESS hours on the phone with AppleCare. When I get to the store I breeze right on by the Genius Bar 'cause, hey, Apple's clearly a little low on the geniuses today, and march right up to the cashier and say I called earlier about a battery. And lo, the gods smile upon me and an Employee Nerd emerges from the back at that very moment with a box and says to the cashier, "Someone called about a battery earlier. Here it is." Now I am all official and call-aheady and no one is going to question me or demand my case number. Sweet!
As the cashier is opening the box to get the new battery out I take out the old one and something prompts me to look at it before I hand it to her and I quite literally shriek in the middle of the North Park Apple store because, internets, this is what I see:
Uh, yeah. That would be my TOTALLY FUCKING WARPED MACBOOK PRO BATTERY.
Hey! Hey, AppleCare! You think maybe that's what was causing my problem? Huh? Huh? Do ya? You think my fucking BULGITY-ASS battery might be causing my computer to shut down every 45 minutes? DO YOU? MAYBE, just MAYBE, instead of having me perform hours of pointless diagnostic test you might have asked me to look at the goddamn battery because apparently I am not the only poor slob to have this problem.
Jesus tittyfucking Christ!
Oh, but wait, internets, just you wait. As I'm marvelling over the sight that is my warped battery with cashier #2, I hear a voice behind me say, "Hey, did your battery bulge out?" I turn around, and there's Mr. SMU College Guy With the Hair and the Clothes, and I'm all, "Yeah! Did yours?!?!" He then embarks on the litany of problems he had with his Macbook Pro, including a non-functioning mousepad button and then the epiphany hits me: "You mean my mousepad button wasn't all tacky recently because I dropped a french fry down in there or something?" NO NO, MY FRIENDS, THAT WAS THE BULGITY-ASS BATTERY. Mr. SMU and I chuckle and admit that we are both idiots for buying a new product the minute it comes out, and I turn back to the cashier, and that's when I see it.
There's my laptop upside-down on the counter. Cashier #1 has put in the new battery for me, only she put the wrong end in first so it's sticking up and obviously not flush with the bottom of the computer. She's just kind of standing there looking at me so I'm all, uh, ok, and go to fix it. However, apparently Miss Thang got all DRIZELLA on my laptop's ass and decided she was just going to MAKE that shit fit, and it's stuck. Ess Tee You See Kay, stuck. At one point cashier #2 is holding my laptop and I'm bracing myself against the counter and pulling on the battery as hard as I can, panting all the while, "It. Doesn't. Go. In. That. Way!" while cashier #2 is yelling in a panicked voice, "Get Alan! Get Alan!"
You think I kid, but I don't.
I think I might have blacked out a little at this point but when I came to the battery was fixed and I ran out of there as fast as my little legs would carry me before another Genius decided to help me out. On the way home I stopped at the liquor store because ... Well, really, people, I don't think I have to explain why. It was there that I noticed a suspicious empty spot in my wallet and spent the next 20 minutes combing every crevice of my car for my missing credit card. I called BK at home and had him dig through the trash to find the Whataburger bag to see if my credit card was in there, 'cause Yours Truly had decided a kid-sized chocolate shake would be a nice treat after the blistered thumb fiasco.
("I'd like a small fry and a kid-sized chocolate shake please."
"A small fry and a what?"
"A kid-sized shake."
"What size?"
"Kid size."
"What size?"
"KID. SIZE.")*
BK returns to the phone to report that his task was "disgusting and fruitless." FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC. Imagining having to spend the night cancelling my credit card and all 6,703 things that get charged to it automatically, I head on over to Whataburger to see if I left it there. And what do you know, there's Mrs. What-Size herself, holding it out for me as I walk in there door. Nice one, What-Size. Nice.
*Whataburger beverages come in kid, small, medium, and large. Kid is 16 ounces. I'm not sure who needs more than 16 ounces of shake, but there you go.
First off, teething baby. I think that says it all, and consider it a cranktastic backdrop to the yarn I am about to spin.
My Macbook Pro has been acting kind of odd for a few weeks now. Every now and then it would randomly shut down with no advance warning -- just "click," and a black screen. It kept happening more and more frequently, so today I sucked it up during First Nap and called AppleCare, who led me through the standard diagnostic crappity crap, proclaimed the problem most likely fixed, and told me to call back if it happened again. Great, thanks. So totally worth the $250 I paid for the extended warranty.
Then the provost's secretary calls to tell me that I've neglected to turn in my timesheet for this month, so I have to haul myself and Cranky McCrankerson up to Richardson to turn it in, because god forbid we have the ability to file these things electronically.
During Second Nap my computer dies again, so I call back, and after more random shit I am told that the additional RAM I installed a couple of weeks ago must be the culprit, so I am to remove it and that will most likely fix the issue. Small problem, though. I had to take the laptop in to the Apple store to have the RAM installed in the first place, not because I am incapable of installing memory, but because I don't own fucking Tinkerbell's phillips-head screwdriver, which is necessary to get behind the goddamn panel. I'm going to spare you the rant about how the Apple Genius wouldn't just HAND me the screwdriver for five minutes so I could stick the RAM in myself right there at the desk but instead made me wait in the fucking line so Grand Emperor Geeksimillian could scurry into the back room and do it himself.
Anyhoo, Radio Shack is closer than the Apple store, so I drive over there, buy some jeweler's screwdrivers, and come back home only to find that fucking HERCULES, when installing my additional memory, decided that he was going to seal that panel tighter than an old nun's asshole. MY THUMB HAS A BLISTER, people. It's all red and swole and STILL HURTS from the 20 FUCKING MINUTES I spent trying to unscrew these tiny little screws of Satan.
You guessed it, though: I take out the RAM and the computer still shuts down. Awesome. During my THIRD phone call to AppleCare, they took pity on me and bumped me up to Tier 2 service, which you'd think would lessen the moron factor but yeah, not so much. Now I am supposed to loop the hardware test off the install CD for THREE HOURS with the power cord plugged in and wait for it to die. I make it an hour and a half before I pull the plug just for grins because a few weeks ago I'd read something on Gizmodo about a silent recall of early Macbook Pro batteries so I figure what the hell, last resort before they make me reinstall the operating system because you KNOW that's what phone call #4 is going to be about. Hey, guess what? Computer dies in 10 minutes.
At this point I'm so enraged at the AppleCare asswipes that I call the nearest Apple store and just ask if they have the right battery in stock and drive over there, all the while imaging what delights I might have been able to engage in today had I not spent two fucking POINTLESS hours on the phone with AppleCare. When I get to the store I breeze right on by the Genius Bar 'cause, hey, Apple's clearly a little low on the geniuses today, and march right up to the cashier and say I called earlier about a battery. And lo, the gods smile upon me and an Employee Nerd emerges from the back at that very moment with a box and says to the cashier, "Someone called about a battery earlier. Here it is." Now I am all official and call-aheady and no one is going to question me or demand my case number. Sweet!
As the cashier is opening the box to get the new battery out I take out the old one and something prompts me to look at it before I hand it to her and I quite literally shriek in the middle of the North Park Apple store because, internets, this is what I see:
Uh, yeah. That would be my TOTALLY FUCKING WARPED MACBOOK PRO BATTERY.
Hey! Hey, AppleCare! You think maybe that's what was causing my problem? Huh? Huh? Do ya? You think my fucking BULGITY-ASS battery might be causing my computer to shut down every 45 minutes? DO YOU? MAYBE, just MAYBE, instead of having me perform hours of pointless diagnostic test you might have asked me to look at the goddamn battery because apparently I am not the only poor slob to have this problem.
Jesus tittyfucking Christ!
Oh, but wait, internets, just you wait. As I'm marvelling over the sight that is my warped battery with cashier #2, I hear a voice behind me say, "Hey, did your battery bulge out?" I turn around, and there's Mr. SMU College Guy With the Hair and the Clothes, and I'm all, "Yeah! Did yours?!?!" He then embarks on the litany of problems he had with his Macbook Pro, including a non-functioning mousepad button and then the epiphany hits me: "You mean my mousepad button wasn't all tacky recently because I dropped a french fry down in there or something?" NO NO, MY FRIENDS, THAT WAS THE BULGITY-ASS BATTERY. Mr. SMU and I chuckle and admit that we are both idiots for buying a new product the minute it comes out, and I turn back to the cashier, and that's when I see it.
There's my laptop upside-down on the counter. Cashier #1 has put in the new battery for me, only she put the wrong end in first so it's sticking up and obviously not flush with the bottom of the computer. She's just kind of standing there looking at me so I'm all, uh, ok, and go to fix it. However, apparently Miss Thang got all DRIZELLA on my laptop's ass and decided she was just going to MAKE that shit fit, and it's stuck. Ess Tee You See Kay, stuck. At one point cashier #2 is holding my laptop and I'm bracing myself against the counter and pulling on the battery as hard as I can, panting all the while, "It. Doesn't. Go. In. That. Way!" while cashier #2 is yelling in a panicked voice, "Get Alan! Get Alan!"
You think I kid, but I don't.
I think I might have blacked out a little at this point but when I came to the battery was fixed and I ran out of there as fast as my little legs would carry me before another Genius decided to help me out. On the way home I stopped at the liquor store because ... Well, really, people, I don't think I have to explain why. It was there that I noticed a suspicious empty spot in my wallet and spent the next 20 minutes combing every crevice of my car for my missing credit card. I called BK at home and had him dig through the trash to find the Whataburger bag to see if my credit card was in there, 'cause Yours Truly had decided a kid-sized chocolate shake would be a nice treat after the blistered thumb fiasco.
("I'd like a small fry and a kid-sized chocolate shake please."
"A small fry and a what?"
"A kid-sized shake."
"What size?"
"Kid size."
"What size?"
"KID. SIZE.")*
BK returns to the phone to report that his task was "disgusting and fruitless." FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC. Imagining having to spend the night cancelling my credit card and all 6,703 things that get charged to it automatically, I head on over to Whataburger to see if I left it there. And what do you know, there's Mrs. What-Size herself, holding it out for me as I walk in there door. Nice one, What-Size. Nice.
*Whataburger beverages come in kid, small, medium, and large. Kid is 16 ounces. I'm not sure who needs more than 16 ounces of shake, but there you go.
While your day sounds seriously craptastic, your storytelling gave me a laugh at the end of a long day. Thanks!
Posted by: possum | Tuesday, June 20, 2006 at 05:52 AM
wow. if possible, that story is better in the re-telling. especially the part about "Get Alan! Get Alan!" hope today went better for you. i might need a milkshake just because you put the idea in my head. kid-size, natch. (THAT NATCH WAS JUST FOR YOU)
Posted by: tootie | Tuesday, June 20, 2006 at 08:19 PM
oh my God....I am not alone.
Posted by: Jay Gatsby | Friday, June 23, 2006 at 02:23 PM
Yeah, your rant made me fall of my chair in laughter.
Thanks for the smile..
Posted by: Brian | Sunday, December 17, 2006 at 06:09 PM
I saw your comment on Gizmodo and read your post. Love hot witty girl-geeks (infering that you are such). Tell hubby he's lucky!
Posted by: Rob | Sunday, December 17, 2006 at 10:19 PM
Hmm doesn't sound fun...it's ok my laptop's evil too...you could do without the language though ;)
Posted by: JDS | Monday, December 18, 2006 at 08:05 PM