Not pissed, just tired of dealing with it.

[bamatone.livejournal.com]

After two and a half years, I'm not supposed to do tech support anymore. I work in the same office, but I'm supposedly off limits to the building as "tech support." My boss has gone to great lengths to advertise this fact, i.e. sending emails that say "UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO CONTACT bamatone FOR TECHNICAL SUPPORT." Etc.

I find this pretty funny because I am still used for tech support whenever it meets my boss's needs. If the students are gone (which they have been for a few weeks now), and the head of tech support MIA (which he frequently is), then I'm up to bat.

So everyone is gone and I get a message saying so and so's printer isn't working. I have worked on this printer in the past and fixed it each time. It usually was an issue of just getting it installed correctly in Windows. (It's an HP 45983453-in-one printer.)

I also know that the head of tech support has checked it out a couple of times since I fixed it, so I know he was the last person to touch it.

I go in and take a look. Printer is on. (Gotta check that first, you know...) Take a look down below and notice that both the parallel AND usb cables are plugged into the computer and printer. Take a look at the printer list in Windows, see the same printer listed in triplicate.

Sigh.

Unplug the parallel cable, delete all duplicate instances of printer, reboot. Fixed.

Way to go, head of tech support.

PSA: Notebooks do NOT have disc changers in them!

[laptop-mechanic.livejournal.com]

A friend linked me to this community, and I thought this would be the place to share. As you can see from my username, I fix notebooks for a living.

We had a PowerBook come in with the complaint of a disc stuck in the drive. After gutting the machine to get to the drive, then gutting IT to get to the disc, what did we find? 2 discs stuck in the drive, one of which was warped so badly it was like a record somebody left out in the sun.  How they managed to force 2 discs in that drive I have no idea....

Hookers, Pitbulls, Weed, Meth, Beer, and Screaming

[combat-taco.livejournal.com]

Hopefully this story won't inspire moral controversy...

My heart sank the second I laid eyes on it. Surrounded by a chain-link fence, this abode of horrors came complete with two massive pitbulls prone to jumping so high you almost get a doggie-dickslap and were foaming at the mouth, a beanbag chair covered in mud on the lawn, no walkway (also mud), and apparently a free legal dispute with the Times judging by all of the unopened papers strewn about.

I had been here before, and all you need to know about that experience is that since then, all technicians in my area have specifically requested to NOT be sent there anymore. To my knowledge that is the only client that has happened to in my area.

After navigating the yard, which was only missing a broken down dodge and some red party cups, I went in. The place looked like the floor of a dog hair coat factory. Newspapers, porn, beer cans, hair, food, dog food, and pizza boxes were all strewn about, and sitting on the dilapidated couch was what I at the time had to assume was a prostitute. She was no older than thirty, but was so worn out by life she could have passed for 45. Leathery skin from way too many tanning sessions, crazy brown/black wiry hair, wearing what basically amounted to a belt for a skirt, and strung out like the slot jockeys at a shitty casino. She waved amicably to me and said "HI!" like she had known me for years. I had a brief suspicion this was all an elaborate ruse to lure me into a crazy gang-sex fantasy and if I ran the guy would sic the pitbulls on me.

Fortunately he gestured in the direction of the computer and said "there it is, fucking thing crashed, just get my porn off it, I'm going to the store" and left. There wasn't a TV in the livingroom, so I was forced to endure some largely one-way small talk with the woman, lets call her Meth.

"So, how do you know Bob?" Drowsy, but friendly.
"I don't really know him, I'm just his computer guy."
"Right but how do you know him?" Increasingly vacant.
"He called my company..."
"Ohhh. When did you meet?" Totally gone now.
"About six months ago."
"Cool! I've known him that long. He's SO GREAT. How did you meet?"

It just kind of trails on from there. She was beyond the point of high that I would have suspected her of hitting on me, so I just said enough so she would continue on. In retrospect I should have paid attention more because it probably would have been funnier.

Bob came home with some beer and offered me some, but I wanted to make sure I was fully aware of my surroundings. See what I go through for you people? He put the dogs outside, and his brother came out and asked me some stupid questions. Bob and his brother look exactly same, except his brother Steve has about 50 pounds on him. Both mid-thrities, really thick Brooklyn accent.

The sprinklers came on.
Steve panicked. "DID YOU PUT THE DOGS OUTSIDE?"
Bob: "Yeah, so?"
Steve: "WHAT IF HE SLIPS? HES AN OLD DOG AND HE'LL HURT HIMSELF"
Bob:" Dude, he's out there everyday, shutup"

*Yelping*

STEVE: "YOU MOTHERFUCKER"

Steve runs outside and starts SCREAMING at the top of his lungs, "YOU MOTHERFUCKER, HE SLIPPED! HE'S HURT! OH GOD HIS ANKLE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER I'LL FUCKING KILL " (at this point he is crying) "YOU LOOK WHAT YOU DID OH MYFUCKINGGODLOOKATYOU OH NO OH NO OH NO YOU BASTARD, YOU RAT FUCKING BASTARD" Steve comes in with the pitbull in his arms, and puts him down. The dog is fine, just a slight limp. The dog promptly comes over and jumps on me.

STEVE: "YOU RAT BASTARD" (crying like a baby)
Bob: "The dog is fine shut the hell up."

This banter continues for literally fifteen minutes. Meth is just staring at the wall. I'm backing up really gross internet porn. The dog licks my pants. Steve screams. Steve crys. Bob lights up a bong load.

Steve begins to make out with the dog.
We have lost cabin pressure.
He made out with a pitbull. Not like smooch, HE WAS SHOVING HIS TONGUE DOWN ITS THROAT WITH GREAT VIGOR. FOR LIKE THREE MINUTES.

This abomination ends, and five minutes later, Bob MAKES OUT WITH THE SAME DOG
THEY ARE COVERED IN DOG SLOBBER
TO THEM THIS IS NORMAL


I finish the last porno.
Bob pays me in cash and as I leave I tell my office that "Yes, I would love to go back to Bob's house if he ever needs my help again."

Animals and porn, welcome to tech support.

(no subject)

[mptphlosofer.livejournal.com]

Holy crap... I think there is a dumb-storm acoming in today.

A quick one

[ihateemo.livejournal.com]

The next person who refers to an e-mail as a "note" is getting punched in the face.

(no subject)

[ex-deliveryboy.livejournal.com]

anybody on here work for Comcast?


seriously, I hate your IVR.

Waste of time.

[graafen]

Hi folks,

Seeing as this is my first post here I suppose I'd better explain my situation. I work for a company which provides IT solutions and support to various other... groups (not specifically companies). I can't provide specifics of certain things but I'm sure that won't detach from the sheer ineptitude of end users.
Thankfully I do not work on the helpdesk but work as 3rd line support for my particular contract (we'll call them "HM"), supporting a very specialised and locked down domain (which we'll call "C-SUP") within the HM infrastructure and we have no access to any other part of the HM infrastructure (We'll call that "HMI").

( About five minutes ago... )

So my question is; anyone else get a buck-pass for something totally outside your power often?

Ignorance is not bliss.

[ethereal-dusk.livejournal.com]

I swear, the next time I say to a client "Go ahead and open XXX program", and they say to me "It'll take a bit to open because I'm on dial-up" they will receive an email bomb from me over their dial-up. I swear to bob.

Furthermore, when I ask you to turn off the tower, and you ask me what that is, and I tell you it is the big black box that you put CDs in, DO NOT say to me "Oh, you mean the CPU?" and then when I say "No, it is called a tower", DO NOT say "When did they start calling it that?"

i.have.your.email.bomb.address