|Article created:-||August 30, 2021 6:57 pm|
Written by:- MJS
Filed and cataloged as:- News
(Facet) – meaning: one part of a subject, situation; that has many parts.
** old Latin word for (evil-spell), but it originally meant (bewitched), or (spellbound.) That’s it boys – blame the woman again: bloody virgins, coming over here and taking all of our jobs.
In this instance, the virgin in question, is a monolithic monopoly company called ( Virgin ). A clean-cut-firm, that can’t even be bothered to employ telephone support staff anymore, which is all due to the bottom line cost-cutting cuts.
So instead, the high flying (highly paid) CEOs, employ guttural sounding flippin’ Filipino’s to answer the phone, but that’s only if you want to leave their wonderful fast forward thrusting service, ..
BTW: should you ever need to actually talk to one of these (non-English-speaking-cows), then you’ll need the (first), (forth) and (last) letter of your password, etc:
(????? – wtf!)
Yer, I know! But what these old cock-sucking-bitches actually want, (apart from sacking), is your [ Security Details ], which are those details; where you entered the name of your first pet, best friend at school, first car: or some such other textual-string thing which means something special to you.
Apart from your actual username and password, it was in actual fact the secondary thing that you put down to establish your identity with the powerful (firm.)
** That was full of hard and fast promises in the beginning of your relationship, but soon turned tired floppy and flabby later on.
Entered details done so, should you actually forget your real (on-line) username, (and or) password.
Entered details done-so, to actually help the stressed out operator at the other end of the line, — to actually establish who they are dealing with.
Do you remember that textual-string?
– And how it was actually spelt? – Exactly!
That’s the 1st 4th and last alpha characters that the flippin Filipino bitches actually want.
The fat cat bottom hugging CEOs, driving their phallic company ever on, have corrupted the original virginal sphincter system; to then suit their own profit driven back-ends.
So, if you ever need to actually talk to someone at virgin wonderland: then make damned sure that you have that exact textual-string to hand.
Back to this side of the real world.
You have a fault, then it’s your fault!
These missing paid staff, (cut due to cost cutting), are actually required to deal with their front facing customers, who are all using the virgins complex equipment to manipulate their highly complex lives, and who all fail to get sensual satisfaction at the drop of a hat: let alone the line.
Thursday the 26th, the net is playing up with the normal squirrely (wait-for-it) rotating pattern, streaming is impossible.
Friday the 27th at 9:56 AM (precisely), the web at B92 central crashed out. I know this, because that was the last image recorded on my window-Cam.
Rebooting the bloody virgin Hub, .. did no good!
Going on-line, .. (on my phone), .. did no good!
So, (via a hotspot on my iPhone, gently touching the delicate G-spot on my dead and floundering PC), I eventually connected to one of the many virgin support tits.
The master sucker virgin Bot, in charge on-line, (recognised my PC), and eventually my active account: then coyly told us (me) to monitor the situation for 24 hours.
Huffing loudly I obediently waited; as all good virgin customers where ordered to do.
Saturday the 28th – 8:30 AM, rebooted the virgin’s manky old box, got the web back, for precisely twelve and a half hours!
Then no amount of reboots would keep the virgin’s chasm-void box of tricks working for more than an hour, before the pox ridden bitch started wandering off-line, yet again.
Saturday night, still no person(s) to talk too, but on my humble phone, and after all that registered kerfuffle at virgin Bot HQ; I managed to book an engineer.
First free slot – Monday the 30th (between 12 and 4), so here I sit in the lap of the callous uncaring virgin, quietly waiting for my cherry to be popped, and it’ll no doubt be done by a burly-man wearing protection, (in the form of a covid-19 facemask.)
Now, if I hadn’t had my phone: with its attendant touchpad and G timed hot spot, then I’d have been well and truly buggered.
One feels slightly funcked by the whole experience anyway, and not funked in a god way either.
Move over virgin, the BT men have just dug up my street, so I’m gonna’ chase the new man-lings for a tryst. Prostitution comes in all shapes and strange exotic flavours.
Now, I know for a fact, that the new-man in the street is much worse, but funk me; this virgin blow off job sucks.
[ Re-edit ]
OK, so a hooman virgin just came, and he was in and out so quick, that it fair took my breath away.
Now, I haven’t needed any hand holding from the support backend for a good 15 years, and that was when the new Hub got shoved through the door. Prior to that, it was to have the phone line sorted out in 2006, it didn’t work at all, and hadn’t been working for sometime before I realised.
It’s also been over twenty four years since the original install, but it seems that over that period: the cable joints had deteriorated , the masked man replaced them, pumped up the dB in the cabernet over the road, and then followed through with a test fingering of the ports.
Seems that you need to finger the open ports to get a good response.
The masked finger wager’s gone now, and I finally have the Internet working once more, but I just can’t stop watching the wretched light on the old Hub to ensure that it’s still working.
Think that I’m gonna cover it up with a carboard box condom construction, just to stop it over-coming me with seminal self doubt.
So, this virgin’s experience is one of two halves, that mainly stems from the frustrating situation that has many parts.
The human interface was very good, arousing and extremely satisfying: whereas the machines just suck!
I bid you welcome time‑Warrior.
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