Kingfish
100 MW
Ever order something online with the idea that you are going to get prompt response and service, item shipped out right away, order tracking, alerts from the shipper, then boom – there it is at your door and in your hands. Sounds great! Like Amazon, or a dozen other reputable businesses out there doing right.
But every now then you get Mother Goose, sitting on that golden egg you just paid for. Half-day later a cryptic robot-spawned email arrives that says:
[pre]“Thank you for your order.
Your order number is XYZ-AlphaBeta,
placed 4/22/2010 at 4:22PM.â€Â[/pre]
Looks like a receipt. Smells like a receipt. Has receipt-like qualities to it which your credit card number blotted out except for the last 4 numbers, and your mailing address. It has all the dirt on you and about your order. But there’s no tracking number.
Welcome to the machine.
So here I yam, exploring my navel, prospecting for lint, waiting for this awesome thing I found online, that must-have item I went half-neurotic over, chewing my toenails fretting, slumming for the best price, and finally – finally finding that killer deal! Yeah, I want it! Here’s my Jackson’s, er… plastic. Give it to me: Gimme gimme Now();
Days go by.
It rains.
Spiders build a new web.
…next to the old web.
I decide to shower, but all the time I am listening for the doorbell: Pleeeeeeeease ring!
I can’t take the suspense anymore and I dial the 1-800-USUCKA number attached to the bottom of the cryptic email. Guy on the phone answers “Yeah?â€Â
Not a good sign. Honestly the sound of a square-nosed shovel dragging on the sidewalk would be more comforting than the musak produced on the other side of the line while on hold as the guy checks on your order. When you finally get the courage to reach for the Advil the guy pops back on and announces “Delivery’s tomorrow!†you sigh with nervous relief, thanking him yes, yes, while contemplating naming the next puppy after his mother…
Miller Time!
Next day comes… and goes. After dinner another robotic message arrives, equally cryptic:
[pre]YOUR ORDER HAS SHIPPED.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR BID’NESS.[/pre]
And it hits you… He was talking about delivery to their warehouse.
It’s that kinda thing that makes you go…
But every now then you get Mother Goose, sitting on that golden egg you just paid for. Half-day later a cryptic robot-spawned email arrives that says:
[pre]“Thank you for your order.
Your order number is XYZ-AlphaBeta,
placed 4/22/2010 at 4:22PM.â€Â[/pre]
Looks like a receipt. Smells like a receipt. Has receipt-like qualities to it which your credit card number blotted out except for the last 4 numbers, and your mailing address. It has all the dirt on you and about your order. But there’s no tracking number.
Welcome to the machine.
So here I yam, exploring my navel, prospecting for lint, waiting for this awesome thing I found online, that must-have item I went half-neurotic over, chewing my toenails fretting, slumming for the best price, and finally – finally finding that killer deal! Yeah, I want it! Here’s my Jackson’s, er… plastic. Give it to me: Gimme gimme Now();
Days go by.
It rains.
Spiders build a new web.
…next to the old web.
I decide to shower, but all the time I am listening for the doorbell: Pleeeeeeeease ring!
I can’t take the suspense anymore and I dial the 1-800-USUCKA number attached to the bottom of the cryptic email. Guy on the phone answers “Yeah?â€Â
Not a good sign. Honestly the sound of a square-nosed shovel dragging on the sidewalk would be more comforting than the musak produced on the other side of the line while on hold as the guy checks on your order. When you finally get the courage to reach for the Advil the guy pops back on and announces “Delivery’s tomorrow!†you sigh with nervous relief, thanking him yes, yes, while contemplating naming the next puppy after his mother…
Miller Time!
Next day comes… and goes. After dinner another robotic message arrives, equally cryptic:
[pre]YOUR ORDER HAS SHIPPED.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR BID’NESS.[/pre]
And it hits you… He was talking about delivery to their warehouse.
It’s that kinda thing that makes you go…