Tao of Scott

Hi Nichole,

I’m sorry I haven’t written in awhile. I have been fixated on my looming poverty and have been taking steps to stave off it’s debilitating effects. Yesterday I spent two hours navigating (imagine a blind geriatric rat in a maze) the Department of Housing and Urban Development web site in an attempt to locate and then update my FHA certification file. I somehow stumblefucked into the appropriate section in spite of the fact that the original web site address had been retired and the primary customer service phone # had been changed since the last time I looked. Don’t get me started on customer service goddamit, you know how I feel. Anyway I found my file, changed key pieces of personal and professional data, touched the “submit” function only to be told that I had neglected to enter my e-mail address and check the square that indicates my total agreement and capitulation to reams of legal language protecting the government from me and my presumed criminal intentions or even simply my blinding ineptitude.

“What, fuck, shit, that’s bullshit.” I said aloud in my home office occupied by me and me alone. Of course I had filled in my e-mail address and checked the “go to jail do not collect two hundred dollars” square. So I re-entered these items and again touched the “submit” button only to be told that I had not checked the fore mentioned square and that, while the e-mail address confusion had been cleared up, my license information was inaccurate. I had not even breathed on the license portion of this document so therefore nothing could have possibly changed there.

“FUCK YOU!!” I screamed at the machine. This whole misunderstanding is taking place between a screen devoid of the capacity to show any kind of intellectual or emotional response and me. Sort of a one sided conversation don’t you think? So I call an alternate customer service number, push every button on the phone’s key pad, finally arrive at what the machine thinks is my chosen destination, explain the nature of my problem to the poor hapless customer service representative who, after asking me several times if I have filled out the required requests on the form each in response to me explaining “YES GODDAMIT AND IT KEEPS TELLING ME I AM IN ERROR, FUCK!”, passes me on to a different, unsuspecting customer service representative where the entirety of this conversation is repeated only with exponentially increased venom and volume on my part. At last the third rep is on the phone and I explain that I have been bumped to every desk in the Department of Housing and Urban Development office.

He says (he is clearly Indian or Pakistani) “this is because you are mean sir.”

“MEAN, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? IT’S THIS PIECE OF SHIT PROGRAM OF YOURS. IT’S DRIVING ME BERSERK GODDAMIT. I KEEP DOING WHAT IT SAYS AND IT KEEPS TELLING ME I,M FUCKING IT UP. SHIT!”

“You must mellow out my fren.” he says in that cool accent they got where it sounds like they’re talking and blowing bubbles into a glass of milk through a straw simultaneously.

“I WAS IN A FUCKING GREAT MOOD WHEN I STARTED OUT THIS MORNING. THEN I GOT STUCK IN THIS GOVERMENTAL QUICK SAND AND NOW I’m on the verge of a stroke… So OK what do I do now?” My breathing was heavy but slowing and becoming more steady. My heart rate was beginning to gain it’s composure and I was backing away form the cliff of a cardiac episode.

“You do nothing sir. All your information is right here. Everything is fine now.” He consoled as if he were talking to a raving lunatic who was just coming on to heavy mood altering medication.

“But why did the machine keep calling me an idiot?” I kinda whimpered.

“The machine is wrong. It is not to be trusted, this machine. Just follow instructions and at the end push the send button. All will be well.”

“I just don’t understand I guess. Why can’t things work logically. Fuck.”

“Don’t ask why my fren.”

“OK.” I surrender exhausted.

“Now is there a way in which I can be of further assistance sir.” The rep exudes an emotional grounding I couldn’t imagine in my most enlightened wet dream. It must be that third eye of his.

“No, you’ve been quite helpful, thank you for your patience with me.” I say in a state of complete contrition, bowing with my hands folded before my head over and over as I slowly back my office chair away from the machine.

Well, I gotta go. I have to fill out this on-line application and e-mail it back to what I hope will be my first client.

Love Dad