Customer disservice in the computer age

Until the 1990s, I’d lived all my life without computers, so it escapes me how this contraption became indispensable from the first moment I booted one up. How had I managed to get anything done for the first half century? How did I ever write a story, edit a manuscript, paste up a newspaper, develop and print a photograph, or send a letter without a computer? How on earth did I ever look something up?

Over the last 20-odd years I’ve learned about many of the marvelous things a computer can do, but I’ve also learned some about things it won’t do. Take, for instance, the “Submit” button on a website’s feedback page. Think it actually submits your feedback when you click on it? Nope.

What it actually does is delete your feedback, after which it sends you an email confirming that you sent feedback. I know this because I have almost never gotten real feedback to my feedback. Never has an issue I’ve complained about been rectified. The only thing I ever get is the email that says “Thank you for your feedback. Do not reply to this email.”

There is one button that delivers on its promise without fail — the one that says “Charge my credit card.” You just have to hope it does it only once.

I have it on good authority that web-based customer service departments are no longer staffed by people. Their last actual humans were tasked with writing “Frequently Asked Questions,” after which they were fired by human-resources software. This explains why you are always directed to a “FAQ” page when you click on “Help.” When you do, you have to hope that the former employee who wrote the questions thought of the one you want to ask because if not your only recourse is to find a forum from among the zillions that populate the web — and you don’t want to go there.

In rare cases you can still call a toll-free number for help. You know the ones. “Thank you for calling WikiWidgets. Please press 1 for English, press 2 for Klingon. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line for the next available representative. Approximate wait time is two days.”

To help pass the time, you’re treated to an endless loop of Mantovani covers of Pearl Jam — or maybe a product-by-product summary of WikiWidgets entire line and why their products are so superior that you never have to call for help.

Sometimes Mantovani is interrupted by “Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line for the blah-blah.” However, when Mantovani is interrupted by, “Thank you for calling WikiWidgets. Please press 1 for English, press 2 for Klingon. Your call is very important to us,” you can be pretty sure they started over and that you’re looking at another two-day wait.

Anyway, thanks for your patience, and if you have any questions, try Google because I’m going to bed.

Contact Robert Rufa at rrufa59@hotmail.com.

The wiener breakthrough that rocked the world

Remember how the world rejoiced when Oscar Mayer introduced the bun-length hot dog in 1987? Sure you do. No more excess bun, which was nothing but bread and mustard. It was an idea whose time was long overdue.

But hopes that wee wieners would disappear were dashed when they didn’t. They remain in supermarket coolers alongside their lengthy cousins. And the frank-length buns that runty-dog aficionados expected never materialized. They were still stuck with the same old buns and still faced the agonizing decision of whether or not to trim the bun beforehand with a knife or afterward with their teeth.

Curious as to why people would still buy the original-size frank, I grabbed my digital recorder, parked by the wiener cooler at the local supermarket, and prepared to grill hot dog consumers.

“I like chili dogs,” said the first man I spoke with, “and I pack the end of the bun with extra chili. Simple as that.” I watched as he picked up four packages of franks and a tub of chili.

When he moved on, a woman stepped in and began browsing the short dogs. “In a word, frugal,” she said when I asked. “I trim off the ends — about an inch and a half — and save the excess. When I have a bunch, I make bread crumbs. You have no idea how much money I save on bread crumbs by doing that.” She was right — I really had no idea.

The next customer, also a woman, said “What’s the big deal? I just center the frank in the bun and let my kids figure out what to do with the excess. It’s called creative problem-solving. It’s all the rage.”

She was replaced by still another woman, who said it was none of my blankety-blank business what she did with the extra bun. And if I didn’t leave her alone she’d get a restraining order.

“Restraining orders are on aisle six,” I told her.

“Huh?” she said.

After a few quiet minutes at the wiener cooler, I was ready to pack it in when a man stepped up — a veteran, judging by his USMC cap. “When you’ve eaten C-rations for two weeks, a tube steak is like filet mignon,” he said, “bun or no bun.” I grimaced. I’d dined in mess halls. I could identify with tube steaks.

Before I left, I glanced at the specialty dog at the end of the display — the foot-long. I could see the appeal. I had a hunch many people would prefer to nibble off excess wiener rather than excess bun. I know I sure would.

When I got home, I decided to consult the experts, so I called the Culinary Institute of America, in Hyde Park, New York. A spokesman there chose not to weigh in. Before I hung up I heard him laugh and mutter something about some jerk calling long distance to talk about wieners. Hey — that jerk you’re talking about is me!