Dear Turkeys At Vodafone,
Thank you for making your customer hotline such an impenetrable labryinth of misinformation! Not only have you successfuly produced an internet product which doesn't work on Windows XP, but you've also managed to avoid any mention of this fact during purchase and set-up. After three conescutive error messages informed me that the failed install was due to my lack of administrator privileges for a different version of XP than the one I was, in fact, running, I was forced to call your technical services number. What a pleasure it was to hear your automated voice system introduce itself as Lara - and a further joy, ten minutes later, to be given three obscure options, none of which related to my product! I was truly impressed by the need to navigate a five-minute spiel of detailed, irrelevant talking (ironically prompted by the "more information" request) before the correct option was, begrudgingly, offered.
Vodafone Turkeys, you had already satisfied my expectations of corporate customer service, so believe me when I say that the two hours of excruciating difficulty which followed were a genuine bonus. When the first call centre employee I spoke with informed me that the solution was freely available via download from our other computer, my suspicions should have been raised. Alas, the promised Version 7 of your installation software (as opposed to Version 9.1, which came on the CD) was not to be found on your website, a treachery foretold by the Book of Daniel. Instead, I had to call back - a process which, in and of itself, took 40 minutes, as Lara cheerfully informed me no less than three consecutive times that your actual helpline was experiencing technical difficulties, difficulties apparently so severe that I was instructed to hang up (or, if I stayed on the line, was forcibly hung up on) and re-navigate your treacherous voice prompt system.
Your second employee - if, indeed, he was not an altogether more fiendish variety of name-touting, AI obfuscation - told me that Version 7 had, in fact, been removed from your website the day before, and that Version 9.2, which had been uploaded in its place, would do the trick. Oh, my foolishness on hanging up that phone! The almost unbearable optimisim, nay, naivete, which lead me to discount past experience as a means of gauging future action! For, as you may have guessed, Version 9.2 did not install your software on my computer, and another forty minutes was lost trying to re-establish contact with a human being, Lara having proved, by this point, a fairly aggravating substitute, her chirpy tones insufficient to the task of conveying your continued technological turmoil.
When, foaming at the mouth during the self-administration of a rabies shot, I finally reached a third employee and was treated to an encore rendition of The Magical Version 7, my tone became uncustomarily stern. I informed the young lady in question that, much like unicorns or an honest politician, her panacea of choice did not exist; and that, like John Cleese's infamous parrot, assuming it had ever existed in the first place, it had by now ceased to be. Through gritted teeth, I coaxed her to stay on the line while verifying my tale of woe, at which point - bludgeoned into apology by the Giant Foam Bat of Truth - she took down my number and promised to call me back.
Half an hour passed. To the third employee's credit, Vodafone Turkeys (though certainly not yours) she did call back. I had two options, it became clear: either download the installer in German from the one site still offering it, or buy a new computer. All things considered, I hung up the phone, punched the wall for several minutes, cast some runes, and opted for the latter. I now have a shiny new laptop, which - true to your ancient legends - installed the software without a hitch. Birthday present or not, however, I believe that $1,470 is just a wee bit steep for an install fix.
Yours most insincerrely,
The SheGeek
