Deus ex Cable Box
Orientation of photo: bottom toward the ground
You're wrong if you think there are no more cable installation stories.
Yes, it is common knowledge that when you call for an appointment the reply is "He'll be there sometime between Tuesday and Lent, between the hours of 2 a.m. and the end of your life as you know it". There's nothing novel in that.
Yes, it is true that although the problem is always in the pole, a thorough investigation of your dwelling is required, preferably by an individual wearing shoes recently plunged into some sort of animal discharge.
Yes, facts bear out the conclusion that despite the evidence that seven little wires have dislodged themselves from their bearings and are bursting fire-cracker-like sparks into the area abutting the bathtub, "that's exactly how it should be".
Yes, your cable problems are addressed by four different servicemen on four different visits, each informing you that the last visitor had no knowledge, no training and was most likely the victim of a severe concussion in childhood, resulting in life-long cerebral damage, and the so-called "repairs" made had only served to make things worse, (said commentary always accompanied by a bemused slow and repetitive turning of the head from side to side, and on occasion by a clucking sound).
Yes, all these things are true.
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There does come a time, believe it or not when the thwarting and the frustration and the hours of your life lost to the pursuit of fixing your Coaxial problems become more important than watching reruns of television programs dedicated to autopsies. It is difficult to imagine, but it is true.
There comes a time when it is possible to call customer service and say, "I will do without; I will read books; Can you tell me what books are?"
When my time to disconnect came, the connection to nowhere through dissociated automated answering programs brought forth a human voice. It was a wonderful, deep voice, filled with laughter and joie de vivre and a swaying Caribbean accent. "What's your problem then, girl"? asked the voice in welcoming happy musical tones.
I explained the medical history of the connection box and then listened to a dead silence. She was still there. "That's terrible," said the voice. "What can we do?"
"Nothing", I replied. "Just send someone over to say the Last Rites and pull the plug."
Then, without a pause, without the tiniest hesitation she said, "Ah, then what you'll be looking for is an anointment appointment."
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