JUST ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION!
by Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand*
There comes a point in every man's life when he must ask himself a very important question.
WHY THE FUCK IS EVERYTHING SO GODDAMN COMPLICATED?
I'm not asking for world peace.
I'm not asking somebody to solve the mysteries of the universe.
I'm not asking for a million dollars, a private island, or a personal assistant whose sole responsibility is scratching my ass.
I'm asking for basic fucking communication.
And apparently, in the glorious year of 2026, that's an unreasonable demand.
Let's establish something.
I'm unemployed.
Not by choice.
I'm trying to get back to work. I'm dragging my ass out of bed, searching through job listings, checking commute times, submitting applications, and generally attempting to put my life back together.
You know, the things responsible adults are supposed to do.
I NEED MONEY COMING IN.
Not going out.
IN.
Remember that word. It'll become important.
THE WELDING SCHOOL CIRCUS
So today, somebody from Arclabs Welding School contacts me.
Unsolicited.
I didn't request information about welding school. I didn't sign up for a consultation. I didn't wake up this morning thinking, "Gee, I wonder how much debt I can acquire before dinner."
I'm looking for assembly work.
But you know what?
I'm a reasonable fucking goober.
I'll entertain the conversation.
Maybe welding could be interesting. Maybe learning another trade could be useful. I'm not opposed to education.
So I ask the gentleman a simple question.
"How much does it cost?"
And that's when the circus begins.
Financing!
Payment arrangements!
You can pay fifty dollars here, fifty dollars there!
Wonderful.
Spectacular.
Absolutely fucking magnificent.
BUT HOW MUCH DOES IT COST?!
Not how much the monthly payment is.
Not whether I qualify for financing.
Not whether I can spread the financial suffering across several convenient installments.
WHAT IS THE TOTAL FUCKING PRICE?
If the program costs twenty thousand dollars, say twenty thousand dollars.
If it costs thirty thousand dollars, say thirty thousand dollars.
If the price depends on which program I choose, explain that.
I'm a grown man. I understand that different programs can have different prices.
What I don't understand is why getting a straight answer feels like trying to extract classified information from the Pentagon.
And here's the beautiful part.
YOU CALLED ME.
I didn't chase you down.
You found my number.
You initiated the conversation.
You wanted my attention.
And somehow, I'm the one who has to repeatedly ask for basic information?
Sir, my credit is shit. My financial situation is not a mystery I'm trying to solve through interpretive dance.
I'm unemployed!
I need a paycheck!
Not a fucking tuition payment!
So I politely request that the gentleman send everything to me in writing.
Email me.
Give me the program information, the tuition, the fees, and the financing terms.
Let me read it and make an informed decision.
And if he doesn't?
Well, then I suppose he wasn't particularly interested in my business.
Because I'm not chasing somebody down for the privilege of owing them money.
CRICKET WIRELESS: THE CUSTOMER SERVICE EXPERIENCE FROM HELL
But the day wasn't finished with me.
Oh, no.
The universe apparently looked at the welding-school conversation and said:
"That's cute. Watch this."
Enter Cricket Wireless.
Now, I have a very simple philosophy regarding customer service.
When I call customer service, I want customer service.
Revolutionary, I know.
I don't want a promotional presentation.
I don't want to hear about exciting new offers.
I don't want somebody trying to convince me to purchase something I didn't call about.
I WANT TO SPEAK TO A FUCKING HUMAN BEING.
So I call.
And what do I hear?
Advertisements.
More advertisements.
Sales pitches.
Promotional nonsense.
GOOD FUCKING LORD.
I'm already calling your company!
You have my attention!
You don't need to sell me another goddamn thing while I'm waiting for somebody to answer the phone!
Give me elevator music.
Give me smooth jazz.
Give me the world's most mediocre saxophone solo.
Give me somebody playing the recorder badly.
I don't care.
Just let me wait in peace.
But no.
Apparently, even waiting on hold must now be monetized.
And then, after enduring all that bullshit, something truly magical happens.
THE FUCKING LINE HANGS UP ON ME.
...
EXCUSE ME?!
THE FUCKING LINE HANGS UP ON ME?!
I called for assistance.
I listened to your advertisements.
I waited to speak to somebody.
And your grand technological achievement was disconnecting my fucking call?
WHAT IN THE ABSOLUTE FUCK?
Not a representative.
Not a solution.
Not even a polite goodbye.
Just a disconnected call.
Congratulations, Cricket Wireless.
You've somehow managed to transform customer service into a system where the customer gets advertisements and absolutely no service.
And now, if I want help, I have to call back and potentially endure the same goddamn process again.
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!
I WOULD HAVE BEEN HAPPIER LISTENING TO ELEVATOR MUSIC!
At least elevator music doesn't pretend it's helping me.
THE AI INTERVIEWER: FIVE QUESTIONS AND A TECHNOLOGICAL MIDDLE FINGER
And while we're discussing the technological wonders of modern society, let's talk about job applications.
Because apparently applying for warehouse work now requires surviving an automated interview conducted by a machine.
Five questions.
Five fucking questions.
Questions about safety, inventory, labels, computers, and communication.
Perfectly reasonable topics, mind you.
I have relevant experience.
I've worked in manufacturing.
I've inspected products.
I've handled freight.
I've maintained records.
I know how to communicate with coworkers.
I'm not trying to convince anybody that I'm a nuclear physicist.
I'm applying for a warehouse job.
So I prepare my answers.
And then discover that the interview interface won't properly let me paste them.
ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?
It's 2026!
We have artificial intelligence writing entire essays, generating videos, and answering questions about quantum physics.
But apparently allowing somebody to paste a paragraph into an interview response field is beyond our technological capabilities.
So there I am.
Typing.
And typing.
And typing some more.
Like a medieval monk transcribing scripture by candlelight.
All because somebody decided that a simple job application needed another unnecessary obstacle.
But here's where the comedy reaches its glorious conclusion.
After finishing the interview, I'm asked to rate the experience.
VERY UNSATISFIED.
Naturally.
Then I'm given a feedback box.
And wouldn't you fucking know it?
THE FEEDBACK BOX LETS ME PASTE MY ENTIRE COMPLAINT ABOUT NOT BEING ABLE TO PASTE MY ANSWERS!
OH, THAT'S FUCKING BEAUTIFUL.
The interview doesn't cooperate with copy-and-paste.
But the complaint box does.
Somewhere, a software engineer has created the perfect monument to modern absurdity.
I couldn't have written a better joke if I tried.
I'M NOT AGAINST PEOPLE MAKING MONEY
Now, before somebody misunderstands this entire rant, allow me to clarify something.
I understand businesses need to make money.
I understand schools charge tuition.
I understand phone companies advertise services.
I understand employers need to screen applicants.
That's not the problem.
THE PROBLEM IS THE UNNECESSARY FUCKING RUNAROUND.
If I ask for a price, give me a price.
If I call customer service, help me reach customer service.
If I apply for a job, let me answer the questions without fighting the interface.
This isn't complicated.
Or at least it shouldn't be.
I'm not asking for preferential treatment.
I'm not demanding that everybody drop what they're doing because Jerry has entered the building.
I'm asking for basic respect for my time.
And here's something else.
I DON'T MIND BEING A GOOBER.
I enjoy being ridiculous.
I enjoy making stupid jokes.
I enjoy being a little shit.
I'll happily embrace my inner gremlin and laugh at the absurdity of the world.
But don't mistake that for somebody who doesn't understand when he's being jerked around.
I'm perfectly capable of being silly and financially responsible at the same time.
I can have maximum Charisma and questionable Wisdom without voluntarily signing myself into a mountain of debt.
I can be polite to a salesman without buying anything.
I can be patient with customer service without enjoying the advertisements.
And I can apply for a warehouse job without pretending that an AI interviewer is the greatest invention since sliced bread.
THE WHOLE CHECK DOCTRINE
Here's what makes all of this particularly irritating.
I'm trying to rebuild.
I'm looking for work that pays a reasonable wage.
I'm checking commute times because transportation costs matter.
I'm rejecting jobs that require ridiculous trips across Houston.
I'm trying to find something stable.
Something that pays.
Something where I can show up, do my job, go home, and collect my paycheck.
That's it.
I don't need an elaborate adventure.
I don't need another subscription.
I don't need a school loan.
I don't need a salesman explaining how affordable something is without telling me what it costs.
And I certainly don't need a customer service system hanging up on me after forcing advertisements into my ears.
I NEED MONEY COMING IN.
Yet somehow, everybody I encounter seems determined to find a way to make money go out.
No.
Absolutely fucking not.
I've made enough expensive mistakes in my life.
I'm not interested in collecting more.
So here's my message to the wonderful world of sales departments, automated phone systems, and AI-powered recruitment platforms.
STOP MAKING SIMPLE THINGS FUCKING DIFFICULT.
Answer the question.
Tell me the price.
Connect me to the representative.
Let me submit my application.
Respect my time.
And if you can't manage any of those things, kindly get the fuck out of my way.
Because I'm trying to get my life moving again, and I have neither the money nor the patience to finance everybody else's bullshit.
I'm going to continue applying for work.
I'm going to continue watching my spending.
I'm going to continue asking questions before committing to anything.
And yes, I'm going to continue being an absolute fucking goober.
But my wallet?
My wallet is staying closed until somebody gives me a damn good reason to open it.
ACT BROKE.
BE BORING.
COLLECT THE WHOLE CHECK.
And to the next person who tries to sell me something without answering how much it costs:
Please locate the nearest cactus.
Hold it close.
Whisper sweet nothings into its spines.
And embrace it with the same enthusiasm you brought to wasting my fucking time.
With love and respect,
Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
P.S. Cricket, if I call customer service again, I would greatly appreciate speaking to an actual human being before the heat death of the universe.
P.P.S. AND HOW MUCH DOES THE FUCKING WELDING SCHOOL COST?!