Our X-Box 360 needs to be sent to the mothership for repairs. It’s got a severe case of the lockjaw, poor thing. It either can’t or won’t open its maw to receive or discharge the feeding discs (okay, the games, if you must be so whimsically challenged). After following the Gateway horror story that my sister is still in the throes of, I’m a bit sceptical we’ll ever see it again. (Really, DO NOT BUY A GATEWAY anything because if you ever need it to be serviced, you may find yourself in a psych ward. Just a friendly little public service announcment.)
You still have the video game you rented.
Yes, as we explained to you the first two times, it’s locked inside the console and we haven’t had the time to endure an hour-long wait with customer service to figure out how to get it out.
You’ve had it for quite some time.
We know. I’m sorry about that.
I’ve got my eyes on you.
Once we (the Pool Boy) finally gathered the energy, we did find out how to get it out, which involves taking the front panel off, poking around with a stretched out paper clip (very technical) until you hit a release mechanism and then it kind of sticks out far enough that you can pull it the rest of the way (that’s what she said).
That didn’t fix the problem however, it just meant we could get Roz off our case.
Nope, back to customer service we (the Pool Boy) went. And after much repetition of our very complicated address (CA-NA-DA) to what I gather was someone with a thick New Delhi accent (not that there’s anything wrong with that) we were to expect the arrival of a box. We were then to package the wounded X-Box up in the box and send it along. We couldn’t get warranty, but we did manage to negotiate down to a $30 charge — not too bad.
Anyway, the box arrived yesterday.
It bears the hopeful address of — wait for this, you’ll love it…Fulfillment Centre
Can’t you just hear the harps and the beating of angel wings while yearning X-boxes have their innermost wishes granted? It’s enough to warm the cockles of your heart.
Seeing a department called…The Fullfillment Centre…(you have to say that with a slight pause, and then an uplifting sing-songy voice) It reminded me of a time when the Pool Boy was in a car accident and as it was a lease (the car, not the Pool Boy, he’s all mine) we had to deal with a department called — and I’m not making this up…The Total Loss Department
Poor things. Isn’t that a terrible name for a department? I bet everyone suffers from malaise and low self-esteem in that office. I can assure you that the department lived up to the promise of its name. My hope is that a department named…Fulfillment Centre…(don’t forget the sing-song) is full of optimism, good will, and a can-do attitude. Kind of like Santa’s workshop.
Now you. What would you name the department for which you really work (you know, to give it an accurate description)? What would you name the department of your fantasy job?