Leave it to Diddy to call out John McCain about his “crazy” decision to select Sarah Palin as his running mate. McCain didn’t even conduct the appropriate due dilligence in selecting her. What’s up with that?
Archive for the ‘Complaint Department’ category
No Crackheads in Alaska
September 2nd, 2008Extra Strength
August 16th, 2008While at work yesterday, I went to our medicine cabinet (yes, we have a medicine cabinets on each floor filled with an assortment of medical supplies) in search of a pain reliever for my headache. Looking through my options, I was faced with the choice of:
- Extra Strength Acetominaphen (Tylenol)
- Extra Strength Naproxen Sodium (Aleve)
- Advanced Strength Ibuprofen (Advil)
I grabbed a small packet of the Aleve and began to ask myself why everything is labeled extra strength — if that’s become the standard. I understand that this is just a small sampling of the world’s drug supplies (being my office medicine cabinet and all) but the OTC medicine aisle at your local drug store is really no different.
Thinking about it even more, I thought it was some kind of ploy to charge more for the extra strength pills. Price the original strength pills at $5.00 and then tack on an additional dollar if you want the extra strength variety. This leaves the decision up to the shopper to ask “Why would I buy the original strength, if the stronger ones are just a dollar more?” But in reality, they don’t sell an original strength for a lot of the pain relievers.
Take Tylenol for example. A quick search at CVS.com shows that every single package is marked “Extra Strength.” Wouldn’t this indicate that they should perhaps upgrade the strength threshold?
At the end of the day, I still think it’s some kind of marketing ploy — to make their product look stronger or more effective. If you ask me, it’s a little silly. Especially when it comes to the sample size generic medicinal offerings in my medicine cabinet.
Snipes get Sniped
April 24th, 2008I think I completely missed this story and to be honest, probably never would have heard about it if I hadn’t been listening to BBC news this evening in the shower.
Did you catch this? Wesley Snipes has been sentenced to 3 years in prison for failing to pay taxes. It’s not just the fact that he “failed” to file taxes — it’s not as if he forgot.
He defied filing taxes.
He felt that he was not obligated to pay taxes for some reason. If you ask me, someone who makes that much money deserves to pay taxes more than anyone. I mean, seriously. You’re a success as far as the public is concerned — and yet of all people — you feel that you don’t need to contribute to the country that helped make you famous?
C’mon. Wake me up when you wise up, Willie Mays Hayes.
Articles
March 21st, 2008I have a lot of pet peeves. Grammar mistakes, both spoken and written, are among the worst in my book. Someone taped a note up in my building stating that “…the carpets are going to be ripped up and replaced with the week.” Well, that sign went up at the beginning of this week. It’s now Friday evening. The old carpets are still out there in the common areas. There seems to be an epidemic of people using “within the week” rather than “within a week.” There’s a big difference between the two and most people seem to neither notice nor care. Within the week would have meant that the carpets should be ripped up by now. Within a week means that the management company still has a few days to make good on their claim. This type of sloppiness comes into play in my job once in a while, too. If someone requests something of me “within a week,” then I make damn sure to clarify their timeframe because the people that use both terms interchangably are the same people that will nail me for not reading their mind and not doing something within the (five-business-day) week instead of within a (seven-day) week.
After a long layoff, it feels good to be back at the old complaint department.
Non Smoking Rooms
March 7th, 2008Based solely on brand recognition, I have always thought that Radisson Hotels were a step above a Holiday Inn or a Courtyard Marriott. I’m not quite sure where I have developed this perception of the brand but that’s how I’ve felt.. until last night.
For mere logistical reasons, Miss Possible and I stayed at a Radisson Hotel last evening and were very disgusted. The room was denoted as Non-Smoking on the placard outside the room, but upon entering you can smell the remnants of nicotine and cigarette smoke. Even looking around, there were two ashtrays with matches… how is this supposed to be a non-smoking room? The sheets and pillowcases were even worse — absolutely disgusting.
Overall, it looked like the room was out of the 50′s — with the world’s very first Microwave and a shoe polishing machine that I’ve only seen in the movies. At the very least, bathroom looked nicely remodeled — much like the lobby, which only further led me to believe that Radissons were classy.
I had complained to the front desk in the morning, and the man behind the counter seemed slightly apologetic offering to take something off our bill but, oh wait, “you booked this through Travelocity? Oh, I’m sorry there’s nothing I can do.” At this point, it didn’t really matter.. I just wanted out of this oceanic time warp. Looks like Radisson is now on my $hit list, much like Delta Airlines.
Where the hell are the singing cats?
February 25th, 2007I never knew much about the musical Cats. I remember how it took Broadway by storm when I was a little kid and soon enough the Boston and Providence theater scenes each welcomed various Cats productions. As a kid, it seemed strange to me, but so did all musicals. As I grew up, I came to enjoy Les Miserables, Jesus Christ Superstar, and Phantom of the Opera. Cats always remained a mystery and when it bade farewell to Broadway a few years ago, I figured it was all for the best. Fast forward to January of this year and Swedish Girl informed me that she bought tickets to see Cats. It’s in Boston for just one week on its 25th anniversary tour. I wouldn’t say I was excited at the news, but I thought it would be interesting.
That was an overstatement. I thought it was horrible. Actually, more frivolous and foolish, than horrible. As I was crammed into my 1928 era balcony seat at the Boston Opera House before the show, I read the playbil and discovered that Cats is based on a book of poems by T.S. Eliot. That was pretty cool, I thought. It lends the musical instant credibility. Well, by the time I saw nearly two dozen adults prancing around dressed as cats, all credibility was shot. I haven’t done any research pre or post, so I have no idea what, if any, allegory Eliot was shooting for. Who are the jellicles? Who is Old Deuteronomy? What is the deal with that cat ascending skyward in the deus ex machina?
It was all lost on me. I honestly tried to pay close attention and look for the inner meaning, but all I could see was a group of silly adults licking themselves and dancing around. It was torture. Two college-aged ladies three rows in front of us (who had also been at the Hyatt Hotel bar, as we were, before the show) left halfway through Act 1. Around that time, Swedish Girl asked me if I liked it. I rejoiced because I thought this meant that she also hated it. I was already thinking ahead to which bar we could visit while the rest of those suckers were languishing through Act 2.
No dice. She loved it. She couldn’t find the allegory, either, but she loved the costumes, the music, and the lighting. I pleaded my case and tried to get an early release for good behavior by asking if I could leave and head to a bar. Nope. I had to sit through Act 2. The only reprieve I got was that Swedish Girl said I could take a nap. But the half-pot of strong coffee I drank earlier was keeping me wide awake. I flipped through the playbill and found some minor solace in the fact that Act 2 was one scene shorter than Act 1.
Three parting shots:
(1) Why the hell does Old Deuteronomy just sit there on stage during the entire intermission? Is this what was done in the London and New York productions, or did this actor just not have anything better to do?
(2) One thing that put a smile on my face during this debacle was the memory from David Letterman’s very first episode of his CBS Late Show in 1993. The camera cut to Paul Newman in the audience and he angrily yelled out, “Where the hell are the singing cats?” Classic TV moment. I’ll have to look for it on youtube. It’s almost 14 years later and that still cracks me up.
(3) Take my word for it and avoid Cats. It may be coming to a city near you. If it does, you’d be better off going to the cinema to see Road Hogs (which looks like it could surpass Gigli and Glitter as the worst film ever made).
One happy family
January 29th, 2007I don’t like my neighbors. On one side of me is a married couple a little older than Swedish Girl and me. On the other side of me is a man? A woman? One of each? I have no idea, as their shades and blinds are always closed and I don’t think I’ve ever seen them. They/he/she is (are?) quiet, so that’s good. The pricks on the floor above me are loud. I swear on one Sunday morning a few weeks ago, it sounded as if they had some friends over and were bowling with both bowling balls and each other. These neighbors were kind enough to rip up their wall-to-wall carpeting some time ago, so we can hear every footstep, every dropped beer bottle, and every bowled ball or human. The old lady across the hall is quiet, but I get the feeling she’s keeping an eye on my comings and goings through her peep hole.
It’s mostly the married couple next door that bug me. Just this morning, they were leaving their apartment just as I was leaving mine. The wife went out of her way to ignore me. The husband and I exchanged cordial good mornings, but then he let the outer door slam on me moments later. Lovely. His wife apparently thinks I’m a serial rapist or something, because other times that I’ve held the door for her, she’s dashed through with nary a ‘thank you’ or a nod. I have come to the conclusion that, contrary to the typical fiber of my being, I’m going to turn up the faux charm and really kill that couple with kindness.
There is one really friendly neighbor with whom I wish I shared a wall. I call him Detergent Guy because one late night as Swedish Girl and I were watching TV in our pajamas, he loudly knocked on our door. It was such a forceful knock, that we thought the RA was coming to bust us for something. Turns out, he was drunk and doing some laundry, but he couldn’t carry everything and spilled laundry detergent on our door and floor mat. Since then, he’s been cool with us. I hope that event (and subsequent hallway exchanges of pleasantries) helped erase the image in his mind of Cool Jesus as slayer of old ladies.
But that’s a tale for tomorrow…
