Ahh. Super.

Saturday morning I awoke to the very loud and uber-annoying moto ring of my only communication link to the outside word. The Cell. I groggily flipped open the phone and tried to modulate my voice into one not so closely associated with a 50-year-old smoker. A smoker who happens to have a penis.
"Hello?"
"Good Morning Miss Birdsnest! I'm Captain McDouchey-Pants and my partner Lt. McDouchey-Pants and I are calling to confirm our 9am appointment to install your Comcast wireless internet and basic cable!"
"Ok."
"Will you be availabe to have your high-speed wireless internet and basic cable installed today at your previously scheduled time of 9am?"
"Uh, yeah."
I'm still moderately groggy and trying desperately to appear fresh and rested as opposed to tore down from my night of marathon "Friends" viewing and screwdrivers. The drinky kind, not the metally kind. Because normal adult females do not drink screwdrivers in the privacy of their own home, alone, while watching a third season marathon. They awake early, eager to start their day being fresh and cute and, if still single, begin The Prowl at coffee houses, newstands and cute breakfast shops.
Me? I'M A FUCKING REBEL.
So I click shut the phone and fall back onto my super delicious and comfortable bed. It's talking to me.* Telling me to go back to sleep. One does not have to put on clothes for the Comcast dweebs, it says. Just stay in bed until you hear them pull up. It will be fiiiine.
*Never listen when inanimate objects talk to you.
Five minutes later I convince myself that I do indeed have to get up because I would sooner cut off my arm than let strange people see my unmade bed. Forget reigning in the boobies, BED MAKING IS A PRIORITY, PEOPLE.
So I make the bed, pull back the hair, put on a bra (thank god, my knees were starting to chafe) and pull on yesterday's pants. Just as I'm swishing the oral fungi from my mouth, the Comcast truck pulls up. Then, as I'm unlocking the door, I see a second Comcast truck pull up.
I think, "Hnh. Weird."
I don't dwell on this thought long because Lilleeeee, my upstairs neighbor, is barrelling down the stairs so she can chill in the apartment with me while Comcast goes about its business installing shit. You know. To protect me. Because I'm a weenie.
The two McDouchey-Pants manage to carry themselves into the apartment while carrying wires, boxes and wearing tool belts with giant walkie-talkies that I assume are suppose to convey a sense of authority. A sense of "I TOTALLY know what I'm doing. I've got a TOOLBELT, duh."
I show them where the cable outlet is. It's in the bedroom closet. A completely ridiculous place for a cable outlet but I'm not the one who made that decision, now am I? So after showing them where the outlet IS and where it NEES TO BE they stare blankly at me, informing me that they just can't do that. I'll have to have written permission from my landlord.
"To install A CABLE OUTLET?" I ask.
Yes, I am informed. To install a cable outlet.
"Ok. Super. So why wasn't I told this ON THE PHONE when I made my appointment and every single ridiculous detail was examined and typed into some soul-less Comcast database??"
More blank stares.
"So what you're telling me is, I can't have cable unless I a) get written permission from my fuckwad landlord or b) decide to turn my bedroom closet into my very own entertainment center, complete with NO ELECTRICAL OUTLETS??"
"Er, yes."
SUPER.
So I think, screw the cable, I'll just get internet. I NEED the internet. I MUST HAVE the internet. So I tell Douche 1 and Douche 2 to install the wireless internet. I retreive my laptop and place it on the coffee table. Wherein Douche 2 looks at my pretty white macketymacmac and goes:
"Oh. They didn't cover those in training."
"What exactly do you mean 'they didn't cover those in training'?" I say.
"Well, um, I don't think our stuff works on those Apple computers."
"Uh huh. And again I ask, WHY WASN'T I TOLD THIS DURING MY TWENTY MINUTE PHONE CONVERSATION WITH YOUR SHORT BUS COMCAST REPRESENTATIVE?"
"Well, uh, maybe they didn't know?"
"Yes. I suppose it would be confusing for the rep to ask what type of computer I have and for me to answer 'Apple ibook'."
Douche 1 then decides to make his presence known. I mean, I'd been concentrating all my efforts on Douche 2. He was being ignored. How dare I.
So Douche 1 takes my laptop and tries to mess with settings, mess with buttons, MESS WITH ALL OF IT and then finally makes his Word of God Announcement:
"It's too old."
"My ass it's too old. I bought it in April of last year. That makes it less than two years old. I. Don't. Think. So."
"Nope, it's definitely too old."
So I fume and bite the inside of my mouth while Douche 1 gets on his beep beep walkie talkie to confer with Corndog Bullwinkle on the other end. Corndog Bullwinkle expresses his confusion over someone owning a Mac. He asks what operating system I have. I tell him. His conclusion? It's too old.
"IT'S NOT TOO OLD YOU DICKWEED. IT WAS UPDATED NOT SIX MONTHS AGO. TELL ME ONE MORE TIME IT'S TOO OLD. TELL ME."
So then Douche 2 has the brilliant idea that they can go ahead and install the cable and set up the wireless explaining that maybe I can find someone who knows how to set up a mac on Comcast internet. I stre incredulously at him, TOTALLY AMAZED THAT THOSE WORDS HAVE COME OUT OF HIS MOUTH.
"Maybe I misunderstood, but- AREN'T YOU THE ONE THAT'S SUPPOSED TO KNOW HOW TO INSTALL THE FUCKING INTERNET??"
"Well. Um."
Yeah. This is how my morning started. And let's not even TALK ABOUT the incident involving how my fuckwad landlord moved the rusted out water heater from her upstairs back porch to the 2-foot wide "alley" behind my apartment, placing it DIRECTLY UNDER MY WINDOW. Don't you worry. I called their answering service and made sure that Cody the Super Duper Answering Service Operator took down every. single. word. of my message. A message in which I used the phrase "fucking cunt" a total of four times. Why? Because I was SUPER EXCITED to see how I am now a Burger King drive-through. Please, give the fucking homeless rejects in my neighborhood a STEP STOOL into my WINDOW you FUCKING CUNT.
So anyway. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.