Whacky Tech Support Tales

I have some Tales from The Edge...... 8O

Glad to oblige......

OLD MRS PHILLIPS AND HER SEASONAL STUFFING

A chill wind rattled the windows as Old Mrs Phillips finished the last of the Christmas mince pies. Their aroma wafted around the kitchen, bringing back fond memories if past years, when the house was filled with the laughter and good cheer of many friends and family members. Now the echoes of their laughter were distant, the house a sad reminder of younger, happier times. Her husband, dear old Henry, lay dying in his bed upstairs, doubly incontinent and nearly blind. His wheezing and gasping troubled her, and his rattling cough was becoming very alarming.

The phone had been her only lifeline to an increasingly scary and hostile world. She was most grateful for the support of her few friends, but she felt that she was increasingly becoming a burden to everyone. He one source of strength and solace was Father Murphy, the kind and giving priest who she had spoken to on so many occasions over the past months. He has recently joined the local geriatric support group and their chats on the telephone support line had seen her through many difficult nights. She was delighted that he had accepted her invitation to finally visit her, but he was over an hour overdue and she was filled with sadness as she realised that he had forgotten their appointment.

She was about to sit down to watch television when the doorbell rang. Her hopes rose as she fumbled towards the front door, her knees creaking with the effort. A friendly, kind face greeted her as she open the door, the familiar black outfit and white clerical collar immediately giving her the comfort she needed on this cold Christmas Eve. The dark figure entered, shaking her hand warmly and extending the best of Christmas wishes to her. They sat together in the kitchen, talking softly about her life and her worries. Dear old Henry was sleeping now, his body twitching occasionally as his decaying brains misfired.

The priest’s collar was way too small for Wingding, but the constant state of near-asphyxiation it caused was actually giving him a throbbing chubby. He remembered with glee the time he had visited the priest to confess his sins in a rare moment of half-remorse. But talking about his various sexual offences had only turned him on, and the darkness and claustrophobia of the confession box gave him solid wood. He giggled at the memory of the moment when he had rammed his stinking man-rod through the thin mesh dividing him and the priest, his ulcerated helmet entering the priest’s skull through his right nostril. His speech was really funny as he begged for mercy, pleading for his life and his need to continue to help the local parishioners. Sensing an opportunity, Wingy made the priest ‘confess’ the names of the elderly people he had spoken to recently, and his enormous pecker quivered in excitement as the appointment with Old Mrs Phillips was revealed. The anticipation was too much, and a violent squirt of male mayonnaise shattered the skull of the twitching priest, the only remains being the strip of nostril that clung to the shaft of the giggling pervert.

Winding spoke gently to Old Mrs Phillips, grimacing as he swallows another mouthful of her nasty luke-warm tea. He offered to bring her to a local church service, where they could pray together and share a quiet moment of peaceful reflection at Christmas. She nodded and got up to get her coat. Winding offered to go upstairs for a quick minute to bless her dying husband, and she agreed with a tear in her eye. She stayed in the kitchen trying to fasten her coat with her gnarled, arthritic fingers.

Wingding, being a practiced and knowledgeable pervert, was fully prepared for the occasion. He tittered in delighted as he neared the slumbering dear old Henry, the large needle and piano wire thread at the ready. Gently, he wound several lengths of duct tape under the bed and around the sleeping pensioner, finishing with an extra length around his forehead. Dear old Henry began to wake up, his confused brain not understanding what was going on. His attempt to utter some confused words was thwarted as the needle pierced his upper lip, gouging his sensitive bleeding gums and then lancing the lower lip. Wingding yanked fiercely, pulling the lips together into a sick Elvis-style contortion. A muffled shriek emanated from the withered old git as the cheerful perv stitched away, drawing the old man’s lips together tightly until he could hardly breathe.

A rancid squirt of liquid faeces filled the pensioner’s diapers, and he wriggled in fear and pain as Wingy smeared him with an interesting mixture of naphtha and phosphorous. The fashionable pervert then lit a small candle and placed it delicately on dear old Henry’s chest. The old twit might be senile, but he was together enough to realise that struggling would only make the inevitable trademark mattress fire happen sooner rather than later. As Wingding left, the only sound he heard was the wheezing and wailing of the pathetic old coffin-dodger as he desperately tried to blow out the candle through his sewn lips.

Old Mrs Phillips clung onto the strong arm of the kind priest as they walked towards the local church. There seemed to be a lot of activity in the streets tonight, and the air was filled with sirens as police cars and ambulances raced around. Armed police seemed to be desperately searching for some escaped madman or something, and she held on tighter to the priest’s arm.

Wingding held the stout oak doors of the church open for Old Mrs Phillips. She entered, and the church was filled with a loud boom as the heavy doors closed behind her. She looked around at the congregation as she was led towards the altar, and was struck by how strange they all were. They seemed to be a furtive bunch of geeks, most teenage boys and men of the less intelligent variety. And for some reason they all had name badges, as if this was the coming together of some diseased movement of social misfits.

The one called RobD sat there with a can of Guinness in his hand, ogling a magazine that seemed to have something to do with Vanessa Paradis. Eden seemed to be doing something very strange and unhygienic with one of the altar candles, while Ned Flanders seemed to be busy disregarding the outcome of some silly poll. Pike was waving v-signs and advocating world peace, whereas Snorkius seemed to be a gentler, sensitive type of character. The other pews were populated by assorted cretins such as Phukface, Phial, Auburn, Wusy, and a strangely perfect looking individual called Svol. MelB sat stony-faced, just waiting for someone to make a smart comment about the size of her arse (which was actually not big at all), and she was joined by Dhlucke who seemed exhausted by a long fornicating visit to Asia.

This weird congregation murmured in anticipation as Wing….er….Father Murphy led the nervous old lady to the altar. In a moment of horrified realisation, she faced the crowd and she just knew that this was all wrong. Without warning, Wus appeared from nowhere (again) and grabbed Old Mrs Phillips, helping Wingding to lay her on the altar in front of all. In a truly biblical gesture, Wingding drove six-inch nails through each of her wrists, relishing her bleating screams of terror and agony. He tried to smother her old-lady screams by snogging her passionately, but was greeted only by a burp that smelled of mince pies.

The smell of the seasonal treat brought a fierce hunger to the diseased pervert. He ripped the coat and thin dress off the scrawny old lady, exposing her withered body to all. The poor old bat wailed in pain and humiliation, but worse was yet to come. Wingding, desperate for some tasty mince pies, used a scalpel to delicately slit open the pale belly of the terrified old lady, She bellowed and shrieked in abject terror as Wingy gently open the flaps of her lacerated stomach, revealing the acidic contents and the half-digested mince pies. He peed into a chalice and sat down to a depraved version of the last supper, slurping handfuls of Old Mrs Phillips stomach sludge while washing it down with his warm, blood-flecked wee-wee. She groaned weakly and struggled as she felt some particularly sick member of the group trying to pee in her butt.

The depravity of this sordid evening was about to get worse. The sickos were passing around a large bucket, into which they were masturbating and squirting their virile love-muck. Within a few minutes the bucket was nearly full of this oily filth, and its consistency was thickened nicely by some especially generous forum members, who added donations of fresh vomit and faeces. Finally, this delightful soup was brought to Wingding, who used a mallet to hammer it into his infected jap-eye, creating a loaded cannon of bodily unpleasantness.

The moment of utter depravity had arrived. Old Mrs Phillips’ dehydrated love-tunnel lay open and exposed as her legs were held by Prozac and Sod (who nobody liked anyway). Wingding took a deep breath, gave his engorged manhood a final polish and took a running jump towards the clitoral bullseye of the gasping old bitch. The final moment of sickness and wrongness was but an instant away.

But suddenly salvation was at hand!! A holy light flooded the church, and choirs of angels could be heard singing sweetly. Sitting aloft a soft white cloud, the heavenly figure of Fredi descended, smiling benevolently and farting clouds of gay butterflies. The vengeful forum God was angered by the seasonal excesses of the collected mass of inbreds, and he aimed a violent flash of lightning at Wingding’s pulsating helmet. It exploded in a terrible storm of cum gobbets and penile chunks, shredding the crowd of degenrate forum members. Fredi landed gently, smile benignly at Old Mrs Phillips and gently healed her with a waft of his heavenly hand. In a final gesture of kindness, he clicked his fingers, sending the old lady magically back to the safety of her own bed before he ascended again back to the mysterious nirvana of forum godliness.

But Wingy had the last laugh! Old Mrs Phillips materialised on her bed just as the candle finally toppled, and both she and her pee-soaked husband were burned terribly in the resulting mattress fire. They both struggled and screamed terribly, issuing blood-curdling roars of utter agony as the flames greedily consumed their aged flesh. They finally died together, their body fats bubbling together in a final moment of seasonal togetherness……

THE END

That's still an all-time classic.

True Story:

I once talked my old man through a hour-and-a-half of setting up a printer and opening a email and its attachment to print off so he could have his professional horse racing tips in his hands. Naturally, the old boy, didn't have the faintest clue on pcs and what they're about. Old Digger just hasn't bothered to modernise and who would when you've made your money and are happily retired to a life of fishing and sports watching.

I was 200kms away and could have driven there in that time and printed the focker off for him myself and sat down, drank beer and watched the gallops all afternoon...and the stress wouldn't have been an issue.

Does that 6 hours include her sucking on your knob for 2 hours and another hour of her cocking her ass up in your face while you explored the delights of doggy style sex?

If not, then you're one slow focker when it comes to tech work...

That's a whole other story....

Well...we are in the Other, So whip it on us...[/asking for it]

Used to answer for a after hours emergency call center. Among the stupid people calling for doctors, rental agencies, plumbing company's and other assorted goodies, we answered calls for the local cable company.

One of my most favorite calls.

Me: Good Morning ****Cable, how may I help you?

Him: My Cable is not working. Can you check the status?

Me: I cannot do that as I am the answering service, the office opens in about 5 minutes, could I take a detailed message and pass it onto the office when they call for their messages?

Him: Sure!

Me: So what is your TV doing? Are you getting a blue screen, or a fuzzy signal?

Him: There is nothing, it's just black.

Me: Just black? I've never seen a cable outtage do that. Can you describe what happens when you switch channels?

Him: Nothing. The TV doesn't do a thing.

Me: ... are you sure it's not your TV?

Him: That's why I'm calling! My TV's broken!

Me: Sir... this is your cable company, we do not fix TVs, you will have to contact a TV repair man.

Him: I get all my TV through you!

Me: You get the TV SHOWS through us. You bought the TV somewhere else. You will have to contact them.

*the kicker is here*

Him: Are you fucking kidding me? I'm a fucking DOCTOR. I deserve way better service than this. I'm a DOCTOR. Put me on hold and transfer me to the office when they take their calls.

Me *writing down name of said Doctor and putting in place as to make note to NEVER BE TREATED BY THIS IDIOT* :Yessir

I got a call back from the office shortly after stating that I was a rude little bitch to said customer. Apparently I was snotty and told the "Doctor" that he was a idiot. Ok I was thinking it! But I never said it. Thankfully all our calls were recorded. I played it back to them and they laughed and laughed

I have a few stories, they're longer, but there's no point in writing everything else:

#1
HIM: Hi, I'm having problems with my PC. It doesn't turn on.
*we go through the usual checking, and it turns on, but Windows doesn't boot*
ME: Right after you hear the "beep" sound, press the F8 key.
*silence for a moment*
ME: It worked? What do you see? You should be seeing a list of booting options.
HIM: It didn't work.
ME: Are you sure? You did what I told you to do?
HIM: Yes, I pressed the F key 8 times.

I spent like 30 min explaining the guy what he was supposed to do, until finally he got it. An hour later, (luckily) the issue was fixed.


#2
HER: Hello, I'm having some problems with my internet connection.
*again, usual checking, cables, connections, etc etc*
ME: Everything looks fine so far. The problem must be in your connection configuration.
*many possible issues discarded, only one or two remaining*
ME: Are you sure you are typing the correct user?
HER: Yes, I'm sure.
*we check the user, it was correct*
ME: Are you sure you are typing the correct password?
HER: Yes, I'm sure. I saw my husband typing it. 8 asterisks.

Another half hour explaining her that wasn't the real password...


It's just some common sense... I can't understand how some people can be so blind about some things. :?

I think you might get mass nostrilvomits.

LOL

Uh... OK... If I had to choose...







I would choose both...





Either / or would be fine too...

:?: 8O What good is half a crack in this particular case? If you start messing around you might as well get the whole crack.
It's all part of the plan. Start with half... slide into the rest. 8)

Mike.

Sounds like one of my abbatoir specials.