THAT SHIT BE CRAY-CRAY!
There are some nonsense issues going on around here and I am sick of them. Maybe you kind souls can offer advice, or at least words of solace. Let’s try it on, shall we?
There is a downed cable in our backyard that’s been on the ground for MONTHS now.
Months? Seriously? THAT SHIT BE CRAY-CRAY!
Here’s what happened. A huge windstorm blew through the Ohio Miami Valley sometime during the spring months. I’m talking alarms wailing, fencing and bicycles flying through the air, deck furniture tossing about, and all us measly humans hiding in our cellar Dorothy Gale style.
(And yes, for those who are curious, we really *DO* have a cellar. It is dark and dank.)
The wind was not even joking around, people. It was very angry wind. It didn’t even make sense how pissed off the wind was. THAT SHIT BE CRAY-CRAY!
So the non-joking wind tore up our trees, most of which are dead anyway, and broken branches crashed to the ground. One of the boughs was as huge as a tree by itself, and it brought down one of the cables in our backyard.
Like any responsible citizen, we called the electric company, known as Dayton Power and Light in these here parts, or more affectionately — DP&L. They sent someone out to check on it immediately.
Which is a lie.
It took over a week before some ass-clown in a hard hat came around. He looked like a high school dropout. Let me tell you something: THAT SHIT BE CRAY-CRAY!
The boy-child took one look at the cable and declared it none of DP&L’s business. He wanted to charge for the visit, too. I was all, “Oh hell to the *NO*, bitch!” and he ran away on his scrawny little boy legs.
The reason DP&L wanted nothing to do with the matter? It wasn’t a power line. It was a cable line. Time Warner Cable, to be precise.
Which is fine, except that the cable had torn loose the power box connected to our house. But whatever. We called the Time Warner “never getting through to anyone” hotline and put in a service order.
Another week passed, and we had to call TWC again… and again… and again. Yes, three separate additional times we had to call. Because we kept not appearing in their system. THAT SHIT BE CRAY-CRAY!
Finally, with a threat of torture and pain upon all their children, someone came out to visit. This time the rep was an older guy.
I wanted to say older “gentleman” just then, but I couldn’t, because that would be lying. He was a complete and utter grody-ballz. He kept hawking up loogies and scratching his nuts like some diseased monkey.
Also? He called me “Hun” more than once. Even the first time was way too many. I hate when rat-bastard-assholes call me “Hun”. It’s so fucking degrading.
So the ape-man took a look at the cable, confirmed it was indeed a TWC line, and proceeded to explain why he wasn’t allowed to touch it. Ready for the punch line?
TWC couldn’t mess with the cable because it had torn the power box from our house and thus DP&L would need to fix THAT before TWC could do anything.
Are you fucking kidding me? THAT SHIT BE CRAY-CRAY!
That nasty-ass piece-of-shit douche drove off and left our cable still lying draped across our deck.
I may, or may not, have cried a lot. Why? Because there are people judging my landscaping job. Why? Because my lawn maintenance is deemed by some to be directly proportional to my parenting skills. Why? Because a woman who keeps her grass mowed obviously knows how to make a mean PB&J and cannot possibly be a fucking bitchy whore monster. Or so I hear.
Did you know that a well-maintained yard means that your child is mentally healthy?
Yeah, I didn’t know that, either. THAT SHIT BE CRAY-CRAY!
With no other choice before us, we called DP&L again. They sent the same boy-child out, and after taking a look for the second time, I swear to all that is holy that sumbitch rolled his eyes at me. Yes. Yes, he did. It was like he really, really wanted me to slap him.
You’ll be relieved to know that I refrained. Still. I seriously considered it.
“Ma’am,”
says el feo chico,
“we’ve already been over this. That is a cable line. Until that cable line is moved, DP&L is not going to even think about touching anything.”
“Not even the electric box?”
asked la stupida me.
“Cuz Time Warner won’t move the cable until that electrical box is back in place.”
“Ma’am,”
says el feo chico,
“we can’t fix the box until the cable is fixed.”
“Fuck you and your condescending little fart-faced bullshit,”
I didn’t say.
“I hate you,”
I did say. Then followed that up with,
“Please? Please will you fix the electrical box?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
This elicited another eye roll from el feo chico.
“Okay, fine, whatever. We’ll just do it ourselves.”
“Ma’am, you aren’t a professional. You aren’t allowed to mess with the power box. Something goes wrong and either you get zapped, or you burn down the house. Plus, DP&L will fine you.”
“Great,”
said la stupida me.
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Have Time Warner move the cable.”
“They won’t do it.”
“They have to do it.”
“Will you tell them that?”
…you punk-ass piece of shit, I didn’t add.
“No.”
“I hate you.”
“I know, ma’am.”
This was followed by a third fucking eye roll and a deep sigh. Then he got back in his stupid van and drove away. Again.
Time Warner wouldn’t even make a second visit. THAT SHIT BE CRAY-CRAY!
Furthermore, they, too, threatened fines should we decide to take matters into our own hands.
So then we decided to do it ourselves, anyway, against all warnings. But now we need a ladder. The cable was connected way up at the tippy-top of our roof, which is far beyond normal human reach (((times))) three.
But have you seen the cost of ladders? Those bitches are expensive. Plus, where would we store it? Something that expensive shouldn’t be left out for assholes to steal or weather to ruin. So we nixed that plan.
So here we are. There’s downed cable draped across our deck, extending across our backyard, all the way from the pole in the alley to the power box on our house. And nothing we can do about it.
You know what? We decided to move. So FUCK IT.
Haters gonna hate. If they’re so goddamn worried about my landscaping and shit, let THEM come fix it. Till that actually happens, keep this in mind:
THAT SHIT BE CRAY-CRAY!
PS – My hubz says this story is so incredible as to not even be believable in the slightest. I say, read between the fucking lines, stupid. If part of it strikes you as far from truth, assume I used artistic license to make it funnier than it actually is. Because the truth of the matter is, there is nothing giggle-worthy about a goddamn cable draped over my fucking deck that nobody wants to fix. But rather than cry about it, I’m going for laughter here.
