The company behind “Possible Credit Card Scam Alert: We’ll Lower Your Rates, Purrs Robot Message…” is called VersaDebt, according to one reader who was able to string them along long enough to find out.
Samuel was making an online reservation with Days Inn when he suddenly found himself face to face with a robot…
Now that you’ve ransacked the tree and menorah, ravishing packages wrapped with care, it’s time to call customer service. Billy’s robot is on the rampage!
In an otherwise uninteresting Fast Company article involving Lewis Black’s take on customer service, an article written for people who wish they were reading something better than Fast Company, is this picture. I
After getting blogo-lambasted for a gaping security hole that allowed anyone to call up and snag your name and home address by punching in your Sprint cellphone number into an automated system, Sprint has closed that selfsame privacy aperture.
Sprint is taking the lead for crappy customer verification after Boing Boing spilled that their new international call identity verification service will spill the name and address of the owner of a particular phone number just by typing that number into a robot-manned 1-800 number.
This one’s for our Canadian pals, all too often ignored by us as America’s Hat. If you’re a Robert’s Wireless Pay-As-You-Go Customer, once you dial up their customer support line the chances of you escaping the plunging maze of robot menus by speaking to an actual human is roughly equivalent to your chances of doggy paddling through the cold vacuum of space your way outside the event horizon of the black hole of oblivion towards which you’re being inexorably sucked.
Showcasing a penchant for dorky punnery and thereby winning our hearts, Kelley writes:
Ever wonder why not?
As if fast-food weren’t synthetic enough already, here’s an automated Taco-Bell ordering machine snapped in Morisville, NC.
Sometimes, with a lurch, I realize that – every moment of the day – I am constantly surrounded by the insentient equivalent of dozens of plaid-suit and bear-grease hucksters, doing jumping jacks and breathlessly screaming for me to look at them. Wherever I go, they are there. Even weirder, I realize I’m so used to these obnoxious guys following me around all day that I don’t even notice when, for example, they scream at me to look at something so surreal or stupid its actually kind of awesome. Like a load of porridgy-eyed Dubliners omnibusing to work in the morning in a giant locomoting can of Heinz Baked Beans. Or a massive inflatable robot hovering from the corner of Tower Records in Boston, with his laser eyes ominously glowing.