In the age of corporations monopolizing every last object down to our toilet paper we're unfortunately subjugated to a bitter torture. Hold music.
Customer 'service'. Please. The only assistance these yahoos are attempting to give us is going out and buying the chalk that will inevitably be used to outline our bodies after we jump off the closest building over 5 stories high.
It's bad enough that I have to speak with someone who I know couldn't give me a rabid rat's ass for my troubles. But before I'm even granted the time to plead my case I'm immediately tossed into the jungle that is your hold music. Brutal. I don't have to ask any of you if you've heard some of this nonsense for we've all, at one point in our lives, fallen prey to this predator's shenanigans.
Nowadays it's not uncommon to get an earful of over-synthesized dreamscape malarkey. The type of shit you might encounter in a hotbox of a yoga studio while some visually disturbing muscled up 50-something projects equally disturbing noises in front of you. All in the name of finding his 'chi'. Get the hell outta here. Or better yet, pass me a handful of the tofu squares you've got rolled up in your yoga mat so I can jam them in my ears you tool.
If it's not synth-driven garbage then it's almost certainly a half hour long loop of jazz music that I can only imagine was written by Helen Keller. It's awful. And I'm wondering if it's all deliberate. Christ, you're working me into a frenzy on the other line here! I've managed to navigate my way through the weeds of your dial pad options. You answered my call. Since we've found ourselves at this crossroads I was hoping that'd you have an inkling I'm already somewhat frustrated. I'm calling because your product sucks. And now I know why. Because the company from which I bought said product seems entirely content with hiring retards. There. I said it. Mostly for the potential uproar. And I'm not going to look up the definition for any of you soft politically correct pussies in an attempt to justify my use of the word. If you want to look up the true definition (which you won't because you'd rather whine and complain about my barbaric choice of words) then knock yourselves out. Or, just knock yourselves out. I sure as shit don't want to hear it.
Now, thank you for holding. Back to the task at hand. With the technology we have at our disposal today I'd appreciate a bit more effort with the business of hold music. Give us some options. My God, you've already made us punch 440 combinations of numbers just to get someone on the line. Why not let us choose our auditory stimulation while we wait 45 minutes for your employed chimpanzees to rifle through the company manual for a correct response? Maybe I want some stand-up comedy. Perhaps a few hits from Hall & Oates. Just give me the opportunity to choose!
If I'm given the chance to tap my toes to a little Bone Thugs n' Harmony then maybe....just MAYBE, I'd be less likely to pin down your location, purchase a direct flight, visit your place of work, find your cubicle and cram your hand into one of the blenders that hasn't been functioning properly just to find out what really seems to be the malfunction.
So put me on hold you bastard. Just let me listen to whatever I'm in the mood for while I conjure up a verbal onslaught dark enough to make you consider suicide.
Your customer service may never satisfy but your hold music could keep me hanging on.
Hold me....the right way.