Calling somebody “a two-bit grifter” probably isn’t the best way to express yourself, but I was pretty annoyed at the time.
I was unloading my rage into an email to Time Warner CEO Glenn Britt, who collected $8.9 million last year but who still can’t get my phone, internet, and TV service working 11 full days after Hurricane Sandy.
I entitled my missive “Dear Parasite,” so there was no way he could mistake it for a fan letter.
In a recent third-quarter phone call, Britt was quoted as saying “We’re still evaluating the loss and the extent of insurance coverage, but we don’t expect the amount to be very significant.”
Not very significant? Maybe not for you, Glennie Boy, but you should try talking to people who have real jobs. You’d be amazed.
I am so fed up with these rock star millionaires who can buy their way into presidential elections or clog up various media platforms with their comings and goings but never seem to do an honest day’s work.
This country’s priorities are severely fouled up if someone like Britt can get so much money and still run such a lousy operation. Is this man saving lives? Is he working on a cure for cancer? No, he isn’t. So why the hell is he being paid so much goddamn money?
I swear Mafia dons must look at these modern day robber barons and scratch their heads in disbelief. Hey, Tony, how come we never thought of this?
At least Jesse James had the decency to wear a mask when he robbed people.
Not everyone with a huge bank account is the next Thomas Edison. There is a vast difference between being crafty and being creative. And greed really isn’t good; it’s gross.
I called Time Warner—yet again—and I got the same lovely lady I spoke with the other day. The poor woman has her own woes, having lost the electricity at her home, but she still patiently listened to me rant.
“He’s a thief!” I shrieked into my cell phone, referring to Britt. “He’s a goddamn thief!”
I still believe this, but it was wrong of me to take it out on this woman. I apologized to her, but the whole situation makes me so mad.
The money bags do this deliberately—they send the poor low wage schmucks out to deal with the angry customers in the same way a general sends the lowly privates out onto the battlefield.
Your country needs you, son, and if you get your head blown off, well, we’ve got this nice shiny medal and a lovely flag-draped coffin just for you….
This woman tried to calm me down by saying “we have to work together,” but I honestly don’t know what that means.
Do I have to put on overalls and go fix the cables myself? At this point I’m ready to pick up a wrench and give it a try. I can’t do any worse than the so-called experts.
I let Mr. Britt know that I have no intention whatsoever of paying my cable bill for November or December. This kind of abuse is inexcusable; I don’t care if a goddamn volcano erupted.
I signed off with the line “write back if you’re man enough,” which is sophomoric, but I’m sure Mr. Britt will get over it. For the money he makes he can afford to rent out a battalion of shrinks to massage his poor little ego.
The repair crew is supposed to be in my neighborhood on Monday and, God willing, I’ll have my service back.
If anything significant happens, I'll let you know...