Comcast Sucks

To: Rick Germano - SVP Customer Operations, Comcast

Subject: Your Customer Service Sucks

From: MissivesFromSuburbia at gmail.com

Dear Rick,
Last week, I called your Comcast customer service to report a problem with my internet connection. The lovely woman I spoke with – quite possibly the only mildly competent employee you have on staff – took five minutes to inform me that, yes, she could see our signal was degrading and booked me for a service window of 11am-2pm today. In fact, she was so conscientious that she openly expressed disappointment that I couldn't be home on Saturday to receive a technician. I thought to myself, “Wow, maybe Comcast doesn’t suck as much as they used to. Glad I chose them over those fuckers at DirectTV.”

Today, I am cursing your company, your customer service people, your technicians and now, you, because I just discovered your name on your corporate web site. Why, you ask? Because I waited around from 11am to 2pm as asked, and no one showed up. That sounds pretty bad, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s enough to merit a little cursing about your technicians, but not the rest of the customer service organization, right? “Why so angry, you say, Deb?”

Because it wasn’t enough that I sat in my home office with the front door hanging open on an 80-degree day for three hours. Nor was it enough that I panicked about leaving my post for a mere 60 seconds to put my son to bed for his afternoon nap. Nor was it enough that I raced upstairs to the bedroom with him, pressing my nose up to the second story window to ensure your Truck of Great White Comfuckingtastic Hope hadn’t pulled up to the curb in the 30 seconds it took me to race upstairs.

Have I mentioned I’m pregnant, Rick? I am. Nearly 17 weeks pregnant, I bolted up a flight of stairs to the second floor of my home with a 26-pound toddler in my arms and put him to bed, urging him to drink his milk, “Quickly, honey. Momma CAN’T MISS THE CABLE MAN!!” while I stared out the window like a member of Randy Weaver’s family, holding down the fort at Ruby Ridge as the federal agents storm my perfectly manicured front lawn.

But, sadly that was not enough humiliation to inflict upon me. Your team had to cause me further anguish by forcing me to sit idly on my phone for 20 solid, mind-numbing minutes while one of your charmless, hapless customer service reps rescheduled me. Why 20 minutes? Why did she feel compelled to ask me if “all my lights were on”? Friday’s rep took me at my word when I said I did all the troubleshooting of my own network and she managed to confirm a degraded network signal in my area. We accomplished all of that in five minutes. Are all of your lights on? Is it just a Monday staffing issue? Because you can tell me if that’s the problem. I’ll never call on a Monday again if that’s the case. But it took today's rep 20 MINUTES TO REBOOK ME.

Ready for the best part? Ready for the ultimate annoyance? Miss Monday Notsocustomerservice said a technician did come out to my house. Twice. Really? My house? AND they called. Really? They called? They called the phone number that you service? That one in your records that you actually carry for me? Really? Funny. The doorbell never rang, and neither did the phone.

So after that, I did what any normal person does in a situation when customer service is sucking giant, hairy goat balls: I asked for a supervisor. When I informed the supervisor I was unhappy, she let me in on a little tip: Comshaft doesn’t actually roll a truck to a customer’s house until they’ve spoken to you via phone, even if you’re been sitting around on your duff for three thousand, two-hundred and fifty-two hours, because you were told to be home between 11am and 2pm. Even then, they don’t send a truck to your house unless they talk to you on the phone. You don't even COME to the house.

It turns out you did call twice. You called me twice, not on the phone number I gave the rep on Friday, but on my husband’s mobile phone. Say what you will about my husband, I know he’s not the most detail-oriented guy in the world, but he works his ass off for us, and he’s a relatively important guy in the grand scheme of the corporate world. He is not going to get up from the middle of a meeting with God-only-knows-which-muckety-muck in his company when “UNKNOWN” rings through on his mobile phone on the off-chance it’s Comcraptastic calling to let his wife know they’ll be swinging by in about 20 minutes. So roll the effing truck next time, okay? I’ll cover your gas if I’m not there during the allotted 17-hour window. Okie dokie? Or you can do us all a favor by listening next time I tell you what number to call.

Lastly, when I ask your customer service stupidvisor how she’s going to make me happy, teach her to say, “I can credit your account $X.” Not, “well, what would you like me to do?” And when I forego any attempt at politeness and just outright tell her to credit my account, she should not respond with, “Well… how much would make you happy?” because I can tell you right now that free would not make me happy. (Although the very concept of a $20 on-time service guarantee for a company that doesn’t actually send a truck to your house amused me to no end, so thank you for that little giggle.)

Just so we’re clear, the only reason I’m wasting my time writing this letter to you is because my son is still napping, and I have a blog. A nice little blog that gets a nice little bit o’ traffic, with nice readers who will be delighted to learn they never have to wait for your technicians at their homes ever, ever again. And, Rick, I hope you’ll forgive me for what I’m about to say, because I don’t really mean this, but it ensures this post will turn up more widely in Google searches. Here goes: I hate Comcast. Fuck Comcast. (You understand the power of search engines and the need for a writer to make a little extra cash on advertising, right? Right. Thanks. No hard feelings.)

Sincerely,

Me.