||[Apr. 20th, 2004|09:35 pm]
The Veritable TechNinja
|||||Fantastic Plastic Machine - Dear Mr Salesman||]|
The fact that the concept of "reaching through the phone to pimpslap you" fails even further when you're on a cellular phone makes me angry. Ship my goddamn server parts because I said so. Don't have me reach in to the damn thing to try to yank the tape picker around. Ship me a fucking picker. Don't buy Dell parts, people. Not even workstation parts. To be honest, there's very little (if anything) that's actually a "Dell part", Dell farms out their hardware manufacturing to Hwong Shing Dong Heavy Industry Limited or whoever happens to be the lowest bidder at the time. They're a finance, support, and advertising company. They don't make shit. They can't even do what they actually do with any proficiency. I call the "premier support" number, and I get a jackass who takes my "service tag" (that I had to walk a Peruvian accountant through finding, since you fuckers hid it on the side of the tape drive that was _designed_ to fit in a rack) and transfers me to another jackass who takes my info and has someone call me back. FOUR HOURS LATER. That jackass won't listen to me when I tell him I've seen 20 other tape drives do this exact fucking thing, and he doesn't seem to understand that I'm not standing in front of the tape drive (since it's in the middle of the fucking Amazon), and won't ship me parts I know I need. Nooooooo, let's flash the firmware! Again! Let's shut down the extremely important file server that runs the manufacturing plant. Let's have the Peruvian accountant start pulling cables out of the rack. NO, pigfucker, ship me a picker and shut the fuck up. I will not hesitate to jump in the car with a motherfucking oar and head down there to perform some percussive troubleshooting on your fat face. Then let's see how long you're willing to sit there while the EMT tries swapping out your teeth to see if that gets you to stop bleeding on your third-rate membrane keyboard. Seriously, I hope you wake up to Guido the expedited shipper cramming his sweaty dick in to your eye socket for making him drive from Ohio to Dearborn because you got the ZIP code wrong. People, look up what the term MTBF means before you even think about buying a server, let alone 367 servers.