Iceberglandia

Here’s what’s going on right now.

AT HOME
Remember a while ago I mentioned a lock that I couldn’t remember for the life of me how it got here? Well, I still can’t remember, but at least I found a use for it.
See, by now, I’m assuming either the contract for renting a room in this place states that in fact, my food belongs to everyone, or it’s just bad luck that the saddest, most pathetic people in all of Guelph end up living here. Anyway, people help themselves to my stuff all the time. So now I lock my cupboard. They can still access the fridgestuffs, and my drawer, but at least not my cupboard. Speaking of pathetic, check this anecdote out.
One day, as always, I cooked my food, made sure to make plenty, to have something to take to work the next day, and served myself a bowl. As always, I brought my bowl into my room, so I could eat while watching TV. I was just thinking to myself “my, but this soup is scrumptious!” (if I may say so myself, I’m quite the cook), when I heard scurrying in the kitchen. Due to my stupid tendency to always see the good in things, I just assumed someone else was cooking their own stuff up. Hey, they are also entitled to the kitchen, no? Well, anyway, my soup kicked so much ass, in fact, that I decided to go hungry at work and finish it all up right there and then. When I went out to get a second helping, much to my dismay, my soup was no more.
Since this is not a fairy tale, it is safe to assume Goldilocks was not the perpetrator of such delinquency, so I wound up with a suspect. See, the guy in the room next to mine, well, he was drunk (what a surprise!). And, his girlfriend never came out to cook, like she always does.
Oh, how dare you, Iceberg, state that the perp was inebriated at the time? We urge you to give us proof, lest we dismiss your tale entirely!
Well, here’s my proof.
1. He’s always drunk.
2. When he gets drunk, he tends to play the same five songs, over and over and over again.  I mean, I like Pantera’s “Cemetery Gates” as much as the next guy, but for the love of all that is holy, by now I’d rather hear The Black Eyed Peas’ “My Humps”.
3. When I went out later that night to the washroom to take a poop, the guy was in the kitchen, in his underwear, tripping over the stove. THE FUCKING STOVE!
On the bright side, though, I’m moving out. It’s not official, yet, but it will be as soon as I get paid. And come June first, I’ll be living in my own place. Cooking and eating my own food, in my own kitchen. Shitting and flushing my own shit (oh! I neglected to mention… this guy gets so drunk, he forgets to flush the toilet… so guess who gets to tend to that).

AT WORK
The good news is, I finally got hired on. Funny, the way things happen. One day they tell me they’re giving me a $2 an hour pay cut, so I leave, and a couple of weeks later, Voila! I’m full time.
The bad news is, I’m stuck on night shift. It’s not so bad, once you get used to it. Plus, I get a shift premium, which is not much, but it buys a couple extra beers, so who’s whining?
The weird news is… well, if you’re aware of how bad luck is attracted to me, it’s not really a surprise at all, but still… I finally received my swipe card today (which basically means I can actually get inside the building, and that’s it), and lo and behold, they spelled my name wrong. How wrong? Well, just drop the “d” from my first name, and put in an “s”.

SOCIAL LIFE
Let me put it this way. Here’s a short list of things and people with better social lives than mine:
* Mildew
* Roadkill
* People with cerebral palsy
* People in prison (including those in solitary confinement)
* Winos
* Turds
Anyway, you get the idea.

ON THE INTERNET
Same old, same old… haven’t happened upon any new interesting stuff. But I’m still looking. Seriously, though, I need to stop reading Wikipedia while drinking. Last weekend, I woke up, came to the computer, and found Wikipedia open to… you better sit down for this one… Mel C. MEL FUCKING C, from the Spice Girls! How I stumbled upon that, is to this day, beyond me. Oh well, at least I didn’t drink and drive (mainly, um, because you’d need access to a vehicle)…

RANDOM THOUGHT
Well, with Ernest Hemingway, Sir Winston Churchill, Bon Scott, John Bonham and now Boris Yeltsin out of the picture, I guess that makes me No. 1… Not that I’m particularly proud, mind you, but YAY!

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a wrap.

THE ICEBERG.

So, I hereby bring you the second part of my conflict with Bell Canada. Because, just because part one wasn’t enough of a pain in the ass, they decided to add another chapter to their shittiness.
See, after the first debacle, my service was eventually reconnected. It was supposed to be on by friday, but at least the next tuesday at 10:00 PM I was able to log on. “Oh, at last! At last we have peace”, I thought. And, as often happens when I think like that (I should hypnotize myself into never saying that again), the shit hit the fan.
From Tuesday, March 20 to friday March 30, I was able to use the internet service I had just paid out of my asshole for. But that friday someone, for some reason, decided it would be hilarious to disconnect me. Around 10:00 PM, no less, when their offices are closed. Well, that’s just dandy. Of course, the fucking assholes spend the weekend sucking their parents’ dicks, or their dogs’, so I had to wait until monday. Happy April Fools Iceberg!
So, I go to work on monday, and rush home (well, actually I had something else to do, which I’ll tell you later, but after that I rushed home) and dial 1-800-744-9205, which is the “direct, toll-free” number of Bell Sympatico Credit Services. I am greeted by a recording and ten minutes of shitty music, and then by what I understand to be a middle eastern guy (again, an accent guy). After explaining my situation and the reason for my call, he said something so stupid, so inane, I could have sworn it was his first day on the job. He says something to the effect of “my payment having been made to my phone bill, so now I have 4 hundred and odd dollars credit on my bill, but I would still have to pay the 512 to Sympatico”. After my head exploded, after I picked up the pieces and tied masking tape to hold the pieces together, I told him he was mistaken, for the same credit department where he held his current (and hopefully not for long) position had told me a good two weeks earlier that they had indeed received my payment. He just said he’d transfer me to somewhere or other, the facts escape me at the moment.
So, shitty music and crappy recordings again. How delightful. If only someone would pick up. Well, finally, someone did. It was a lady with a friendly demeanor and a voice that said “I can get things done”. Why she answered in french was beyond me at the time, but after disclosing my situation to her, she sadly regretted to inform me that I had been listening to shitty music while that other imbecile put me through to Bell in Quebec. IN FUCKING QUEBEC! Fucking middle easterners and their inability to operate communication equipment. FUCK! Operate a passenger aircraft and crash it into a strategical point in a building – twice, no problem. Channel a caller to the same province you’re both in, now that’s too much. Now, I don’t mean to offend middle easterners in general, I apologise, I’m just pissed.
So, Quebec lady transfers me back to Ontario. Ahh, it’s good to be back home. Well, good, if only for a moment. Because the next guy I talked to, while apparently a native English speaker and seemingly intelligent (for Bell standards, anyway) tells me he, too, is incapable of giving me any assistance, but he’ll put me through to… guess?
Why, yes! the very same place I started my ordeal! The Bell Sympatico Credit Services! So anyway, another ten minutes of, really, the shittiest phone music in fucking history, I get an answer. This time, a french accent. Now frenchie here just flat out went out and outdid the middle eastern guy. Not in that she gave me a bullshit excuse about anything, but in the sheer stupidity factor. Not only did she fail to communicate me to a faraway province, she just… couldn’t… log… in… to… my… account.
Now, understand that by this time, I was pissed beyond repair. Still, I didn’t give her a hard time, hassle her or call her names. I just politely asked to speak to a supervisor. I could have said “someone with a brain”, but then again, she might not know what that means. Unfortunately for me, there were no supervisors. Yeah, right. Fortunately for me, she could put me through to Bell Services. You know, the phone company. Just what I need! Oh! What’s that? They’re closed? OK, frenchie, goodbye, and remember, ignorance is bliss!
Just because I am stubborn, and because, well, I like to enjoy the services I pay for, I decided to dial, for the third time, the 1-800 number for the Bell Sympatico Credit Services.
Now, I made it clear in my previous post that even though I hate dealing with people with accents, I have no problem whatsoever with immigrants. Fuck, I myself am one. My problem is that if you’re going to place someone in a job where they have to be talking to people all day, you’d be better off hiring people who can actually be understood. You know, someone who doesn’t have a heavy accent. Or a speech impediment.
Meet Virginia! I only remember her name, because she has the same name as my sister. Now, after running her accent through my Mental Accent Processor 9000, I could only come to the conclusion that her problem was not that of a foreign speech pattern, but that of a degenerative one. Braces? Hairlip? Overbite? Broken Jaw? Who knows. The point is, it was kind of hard to understand her, but apparently (and keep the apparently in mind) she was able (Hallellujah!) to understand my situation, and actually offer some help. If I understood her correctly, she told me she’d have my internet running in the following 24 hours, and she gave me a number to call. I had a hard time understanding the first time, so I asked “so, where is that number you just gave me?” You know, meaning what company. “In Canada”, she replies. So maybe I went a little overboard complimenting her abilities. She does, after all, work for Bell… So, again, she repeats my internet service will be connected in the next 24 hours, I thank her, and hang up.
And, just to have clarity in my mind, I decide to call the number she gave me. I really should have left it at that. It was a fucking fax number.

So, that brings us to the end of our story. Well, this chapter, at least. The story itself will end when I find out they actually have my money.
You know, you’d think that a company that is so hungry for money that they have to treat their customers worse than a Las Vegas pimp treats his “bitches” would be more careful with the money. They lost my payment, and I’m the one paying for it.
Oh, and I forgot a “funny” anecdote. Even when I clearly stated to the french accent girl (not the one in Quebec, the idiot one) that my reason for calling was that my internet had been disconnected, she still invited me to log on to www.bell.ca before I hung up on her. Dumb broad.

 The Iceberg.

Ahh, life. It sure is a big, steaming pile of shit, isn’t it? Well, mine is, apparently. Here’s another story.

Back when I lived in Mexico, I swore I would never hate a company, ever, as much as I hated Telmex, the huge telephone monopoly they got goin’ down there. And sure, Telmex sucked (they have no competition, why put effort into things) and I’m pretty sure they still do. But boy, do I miss them.

One would think that moving to a country in the first world, or I guess a better term would be a “developed” country, that things would be better than their “underdeveloped” counterparts.
I mean, sure, companies exist with the sole purpose of fucking people out of their money. But at least some of those companies, um, tell you they love you while they stick their dick up your ass. Bell Canada, not so much. Since we’re speaking in sexual terms, what Bell does to you (or at least what they did to me) would be the equivalent of violent rape. Oh, and mugging.
Before I continue, I’ll tell you this. I’m switching to Rogers. Fuck Bell.

Ok. so, our little tale has three parts to it. In part one, I deal with the only company, up until then, that was afraid of cash, and found out Bell, much like God, works in mysterious ways. In part two, Bell and their friends over at the Royal Bank of Canada kept screwing me over and over. And In the third part, well, Bell basically told me to fuck off and find an internet provider with shreds of human decency.

PART I
When I first moved into this dump in January of 2006, I had to go make my phone calls in the corner across the street. “My office”, I called it. And while for 25 cents I could call just about anywhere, it was a pain in the ass to be standing there in the freezing winter. So, as soon as I could, I went to Bell with the intent of acquiring a telephone service. Being relatively new to the country, I expected logic. I expected to walk in with my ID, sign a contract, and have everything done and over with. Silly me. They wanted me to give them a 200 dollar deposit, for long distance. Even when I explained I would not be using their long distance services, at all. Still, they insisted on acting like a hotel and asking for a deposit. So, I said “OK, here”, as I handed The lady 10 of my hard earned 20 dollar bills. “Oh, no, no, no”, she said. We only take money orders. And I’m like, “nigga please!”.
So, the next day I go to the Post Office, and purchase a money order. I go to Bell. “Here’s the money order”, I said. My comment was received with a “well, if you’re not going to use our long distance services, you don’t need a deposit”. “Well, that’s all fine and dandy, sugar! If only you had understood this yesterday when I brought it up!”, I thought of saying, but I was just happy to be able to get my phone. I assumed, stupidly, and in part due to my experience with the aforementioned Telmex back in Mexico, that they’d give me an actual telephone, and well, being that they’re providing me with the service, perhaps a hint as to what my telephone number would be. “Well, you can go to Radio Shack, or The Source, and buy a telephone”, the nice lady told me, “and then call someone who happens to have caller ID, and tell them to give you your number”.
Sheesh!
Anyway, as soon as I had my phone set, called my next door neighbor to get my number, and set up my answering service, it was time to fasten my seatbelt and observe the no smoking sign, because I wanted to take off into the world of high speed internet! Whoopeee!
So, when I returned to Bell to inquire as to what the dillio was with their internet service, she basically told me it was fast as hell (she didn’t lie – I’ll give Bell that), but instead of billing, the money would be taken monthly from my bank account. Oh, and the first three months were free. I would have been an idiot not to sign up for that, wouldn’t I? Well, let’s go on to part 2 and find out!

PART II
Well, the first months with Bell Sympatico were pure nirvana. I was downloading at speeds mere mortals could only fantasize about, I had next to zero buffering time when I wanted to watch videos or load online thingies, and websites loaded faster than I could blink (I blink slowly, but still…).
Then I stated noticing something funny on my bank statements. I’ll admit, this part is my own fault, for not paying attention (and for assuming these people had an intelligent billing system). See, on every statement, Bell took some money, returned it the next day, and after that there was a charge of 35.00. I assumed the 35 dollars were my actual monthly bill, and left it at that.
Well, a month ago I received a call from those fine people at Bell Sympatico, telling me I owed them 512.00. When I told them to check again, because I was pretty sure my payments were being made (it being an automatic deduction from my account, and all), I was told to take my bank statements to the Bell store, and have them faxed over to their lovely credit department. Which I promptly did, with an air of indignation. Because these morons fucked up, or so I thought, I had to give them my private information. Now everybody at Bell can find out how much I spend at the liquor store, or at the supermarket.
A couple of days later, they called me again and told me they got my fax, but I still owed them the money. So after five minutes of actually reading my bank statements, I came upon the discovery that the 35 dollars that were being charged every month fell under the category of NSF – Returned Item. Of course, NSF means Non-Sufficient Funds, and it was just a fee. Like bouncing a check, basically.
Boy, did I ever feel stupid for not paying attention. But still, you’d figure the billing system was a little bit more intelligent. So fuck-a-doodle-doo, I thought I had finally caught up on all my debts. What a dumbass.
This brings us to the final part, the part where my idiocy, the ludicrousness of the billing system and everything else hop into the back seat. It’s time for human decency to shine!

PART III
After trying religiously to call the Bell Sympatico number for over a week, only to be greeted with automatic voice lunacy and the shittiest music this side of the ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’ theme music, I finally got through last wednesday. I was redirected to the credit department, where some dumbass with a bad accent told me the least I had to pay in order to get my service reconnected (which was over 90% of my total debt). I told him I’d be paying on thursday, and he basically said – no, he promised – that as soon as I called them back with the payment reference number, my services woud be reconnected. That’s not the way they usually operate, see, but they’d do it in response to my good will.
Thursday rolls around, and the trials and tribulations at my former job, somehow, meant I got paid less than what I had expected. Which led to having to decide: I had food in my house, and barely could make it through the week what with buying smokes and bus fare (no booze, fancy dining at the chinese buffet, laundry or bike repairs) and pay the damn thing, or lead a life of “luxury” for a week and suffering from internet withdrawal symptoms for another week. Obviously, I went and paid or else I wouldn’t be writing this.
So, I get back home and call Bell Sympatico, once again, to give them the reference number. After 20 minutes of shitty music, I get greeted by Winter. I never, ever make a point of listening to the dumbass on the other side of the phone’s name, but apparently Winter stuck out. I can only assume her parents were hippies. Oh, and not just because of the name. Apparently her mother took too many hits of the ol’ hippie bong while pregnant, so poor Winter here didn’t know what to do. She kept asking for numbers and usernames and codes and other shit, and she finally gave up. In her words, “I don’t know what I’m doing here, let me transfer you to someone else”. Hey, great screening there, Bell!
Five more minutes of crappy music, and again I’m greeted by someone with a shitty accent. I’m not a racist, and welcome to Canada, and all that shit, but fuck, if you’re a company and you plan on having people sitting at a telephone talking to customers all day, at least make sure they can be understood!
Anyhoo, accent girl here repeats the word credit three times in a row, and transfers me. I know this, because of the shitty music. Finally, someone else answers, and apparently she’s a native speaker. So no accents here (which will be important, because even they can’t say I didn’t understand what she said). Apparently, she was from the credit department. We talked and talked and talked about my account number, and my username, and my payment reference number, and other series of digits (sometimes with alphanumeric characters in them, just for kicks), and what she told me at the end of our conversation was like music to my ears (good, beautiful music this time). She said I’ll send a note to my colleagues and get your service reconnected right away. Remember, this was thursday, at 4.30 PM.
Last time I checked, at 10.30, I still had no service. But on friday, after I got home from work, I was delighted to see the green icon which signalled my return to cyberspace. What glee came upon me when I opened up my usual websites, switched on MSN and had a couple of interesting conversations, and directed my browser towards YouTube to watch a couple of clips. But, the joy would not last, for I was weary after five days at my new job. Oh well, there’s always tomorrow, right?
Well, this morning before leaving for work, I turned on the computer to log on to the Weather Network’s site. Much to my dismay, I was surprised by the sudden message screen that told me I couldn’t log on. Those fuckers. Well, I was running late, so I’d deal with this in the afternoon.
The first thing I did today after opening the door was call these pricks. Well, actually the first thing was to take a piss, but you didn’t need to read about that. But I did call them, and to my surprise, another lady with a bad accent.
Now, this moron told me two things. First, that yes, indeed they had received my payment, but unfortunately since she’s a dumbass, she can’t connect my service, so I should wait until tuesday, and that it was impossible, or anything beyond impossible, that I had been connected yesterday. I was like “bitch, ask my friends!”. But I knew I would never get anything out of her, so I decided not to waste my time.
So, as you can see, they fed me false promises, got what they wanted out of me (had their way with me, so to speak), and then told me to fuck off.
I’ll be fucking off, alright. From what I hear, Rogers has an interesting package: for 100 dollars you get high speed internet, cell phone, home phone and cable. Being that I miss cable TV, and I’m apparently in search of a new internet service provider, I’ll look into that option. As soon as these fuckers from Bell get their shit straight and get me reconnected, so I can log on to Sympatico.ca and cancel my fucking account. Fucking assholes.

The Iceberg.