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According to Hofmann: Press 0 and fight the machines

By Mark Hofmann mhofmann@heraldstandard.Com 5 min read
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As a reporter, I have to talk to a lot of people over the phone because I have to interview them and ask them questions like, “Why are you running for public office?,” “Where is the office?,” “Why were you found trying to smuggle a goat across state lines?, and “Are you serious?”

While thatĢƵ not fun at all, making phone calls is especially not fun in my private life-you know, the stuff behind closed doors that I end up putting in a newspaper column every week.

I, myself, me and the rest of us have to make phone calls to companies every now and then, but all of us (I can’t speak for myself, me and I, but I’m sure the remainder of you feel the same) find it to be the most loathsome, tedious thing to do on the planet … with the exception of running for public office, of course.

Whenever I call and have to deal with those automated operators, I pretty much feel like my intelligence is being insulted when I have to “talk” with them.

“Hello there … Mark,” is one prerecorded ladyĢƵ voice says whenever I call to make a cable payment as I’m supposed to feel good that this software program matched my phone number to the account thatĢƵ under my name.

They say your own name is the thing you like to hear the most unless you’re being called to step up to the gallows, but I have to say that I find hearing this computer say my name is a bit off putting, which is why I’m thinking about legally changing my name to something more complicated. I’d like to listen for the computer to stumble, spark, crackle, turn against its own program and self delete.

ItĢƵ either the computer knows me when I’m calling or I get this message when I call: “All of our operators are busy with other callers, but I’m here to help you. Please say your name so I can look up your account.”

“Mark Hofmann,” I say.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite catch that,” it replies. “Please say your name so I can look up your account.”

I know that itĢƵ picking up background noise so it thinks I’m saying, “Marhfdoivwouvhsojgpebsovpwfmann,” but how much do I have to enunciate for this soulless machine to understand me?

Turns out, after 32 attempts of saying my names in different tones, dialects, accents and imitations of Yakov Smirnoff and Christopher Walken, the computer finally realizes that I’m me and lets me proceed before throwing more humor-column fodder my way.

“Please wait, while I look up that account,” the disembodied voice says followed by the sounds of clacking from a keyboard as itĢƵ trying to convince me that a person is actually typing information to bring my account up.

I really don’t know who they’re trying to fool-maybe a retired typing teacher whoĢƵ nodding along and saying, “Oh, my. They’re typing a good 90 words a minute!”

Anyway, back to waging verbal war against a machine.

The machineĢƵ next weapon is the guilt trip because it has your info and knows you’ve been naughty and haven’t paid your bill on time. At least, when you speak with a human on the other line, a sob story can get you a break, but when I’m faced with a megabyte bill collector, I think of what Michael BeihnĢƵ character, Reese, said in “The Terminator.”

“It doesn’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear and it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead.”

Okay, thatĢƵ too much because I’m sure it would stop if thereĢƵ a power surge or something, but what can you say to these things over the phone?

“I know the credit-card bill is late, but I was, uh … goat sitting for my friend while heĢƵ under federal investigation for, well, we won’t get into the details of that. Anyway, the goat decided to snack on all the bills I had on my table including the credit card bill, and I forgot to get in touch with the credit card company because I was overwhelmed with joy that my friendĢƵ investigation was tossed out, but I’ll get the minimum payment to you ASAP, I promise!”

“…ERROR! ERROR! NON-SEQUITUR! HUMAN EXTINCTION MUST COMMENCE!”

Now, I’m all for making life as stress-free as possible, so my advice for you this week (even though this is far from an advice column,) is just press 0 and bypass all the computer gibberish that won’t be able to understand anything you say anyway.

You may have to wait a few minutes to an hour or three longer, but then you’ll be in touch with a real human being who knows what you’re saying and knows his stuff and, God willing, he sympathizes with your plight and your friendĢƵ bill-eating goat.

According to Hofmann is written by staff reporter Mark Hofmann of Rostraver Township. His books, “Good Mourning! A Guide to Biting the Big One … and Dying, Too” and “Stupid Brain,” are available on Amazon.com.

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