Overt Thievery or Highway Robbery?

For a company which purports to protect your home and family from burglary, ADT Tyco Security, Inc. sure does act like a bunch of thieves.

I learned over the past couple of weeks that ADT will stop at nothing to rip off their customers. Allow me to explain the sequence of events which lead to this realization:

1. I had a security system installed by an authorized ADT dealer over two years ago. The system was free, and I signed a three year monitoring agreement with ADT.
2. An electrical surge popped a transformer and fried the circuit board of my security system.
3. I called the 800 number on my ADT window sticker. For $125 the first half hour, and some ungodly rate every fifteen minutes thereafter, ADT sent a technician to my home. He did nothing, except tell me what I already knew. “Your system is fried. Call ADT.”
4. I called ADT again. I told them what the service guy said, and they quoted me $680 to repair my system. They also suggested an upgrade might be cheaper, and scheduled an appointment for an Upgrade Specialist to come to my home. “Upgrade Specialist” is a fancy, PC term for “Pushy Salesperson.” Aren’t you glad you live in the age of political correctness? Bullshit doesn’t smell so bad these days, because purveyors of it use so much perfume to cover the stink. But I digress.
5. The “Upgrade Specialist” arrived, and told me my system was too old to be upgraded. I would need to purchase an entirely new system for $500. She happily glossed over the fact that the expensive new system was a downgrade from the free system I already had. I negotiated for an hour and a half. I told them there was no way I would accept a lesser system, I insisted that they upgrade it to wireless, throw in the pieces that were missing, and then give me a discount on top of that. The salesperson could not make up her own mind, so she kept calling her boss at ADT’s corporate branch downtown. He obstinately refused to sell me an adequate system.
6. I told the salesperson to get out of my house, and to inform her boss that he’d just lost a customer.
7. I looked on Ebay. Found a brand new system identical to my old one for $184. I got curious as to whether I could install it myself.
8. So I called the authorized ADT dealer who installed my system to begin with to see if all the parts were compatible. I found out that for $99 and a new monitoring contract, I could get a whole new system, and the parts were compatible with what I already had.
9. Two days later, the dealer called to make an appointment. I found out that for $25, he could replace the parts that were destroyed and I would not have to sign a new contract. This is because my original installation came with a warranty service about which ADT corporate did NOT inform me.

The lesson here is never deal with ADT’s corporate office, except for billing questions and to test your system. Their salespeople are out to rob you blind. For service, seek out the local dealers.

Here’s another useful tidbit of advice: Do you notice how ADT charges up to $35 a month for basic monitoring service, and they get you for three years? They also renew your contract at the same rate annually after the initial contract expires. Have you also noticed that other security companies, who are happy to have your business, will monitor for $20 per month or less? Here’s the way around ADT’s insane rate. About six weeks before your contract expires, call ADT and inform of your intent to drop them and seek monitoring service elsewhere. They’ll negotiate a lower rate with you. If you can’t get the rate you want, make sure you give them 30 days written notice of your intent to cancel.

Knowledge is like an auto loading shotgun. When you have it on your side, you can protect yourself from just about any adversary.

Red Clay’s Treatise on the Art of the Celebrity Temper Tantrum, Part II

Now that we’re on the topic of crybabies and spoiled brats, there’s a couple more big shot celebrities bitching and moaning in the public forum this week, both of whom I wish would just dry up and blow away. Unfortunately, Oprah Winfrey, though her coiffure has enough surface area to double as a sail on an ocean going vessel, is too fat to get off the ground. Tom Cruise, on the other hand, is so full of hot air that I’m surprised he hasn’t floated away already.

As if her talk show isn’t proof enough, Oprah’s loudly proclaimed disdain with Hermes department store in Paris provides more evidence that she obviously does not live in the same world as the rest of us. On earth, stores tend to shut down at closing time. Once the doors are locked, employees typically won’t let anyone else in. It doesn’t matter if you’re North African, South Asian, Western European, East Martian, or even an ethnic Zulu. Pound on the door after closing time, and you’re more likely to be seen as a security risk. Even if those French clerks did recognize her as the All Exalted Oprah, they had every right to tell her to get lost and continue with the business at hand.

I’ve heard just about enough from Tom Cruise, too. Maybe his next project will be another H.G. Wells adaptation, The Invisible Man. If he studies the new role properly, he might just disappear for a while.

These spoiled rotten celebrities should handle such embarassing situations with a bit more dignity. At least Russell Crowe’s recent phone tossing incident was more in line with how the average citizen would react to an antagonist. Tom Cruise could have opened the valve on the nearest fire hydrant and held his interviewer’s face in the water until he received a proper apology. Oprah Winfrey could have thrown a ham hock through the plate glass window at Hermes. I’m sure she had one in her purse.

Golf Course Superintendents: Beware of Tiger Woods

Contrary to popular belief, Eldrick “Tiger” Woods is not the son of God.

He’s much closer to being a son of a bitch.

True lineage aside, Woods, whose misbegotten nickname implies a careless concatenation of dual ethnic slurs, unabashedly exhibits behavior on the golf course befitting a spoiled, five year old brat.

His latest self-centered, pouting temper tantrum came last week at the 105th United States Open. After missing a shot, Woods gouged his club along the putting surface in anger, tearing up a three foot swath of grass on the impeccably kept green. He then tapped his ball in the hole and made a halfhearted attempt at repairing his unnecessary damage to the course. The USGA investigated this offending breach of etiquette, but, of course, did not find it serious enough to disqualify His Highness. California is not, apparently, the only place where celebrities are allowed to run roughshod over rules which are properly enforced for everyone else.

The etiquette breach occurred during weekday play. NBC, which televised the tournament for fourteen hours over the weekend, did not replay the footage, or make any mention of Woods’ despicable behavior during their telecast.

It would be a refreshing departure from the norm to see the USGA and the sports media pull their tongue out of Tiger Woods’ ass hole long enough to reprimand him for his frequent outbursts of obscenity and disgusting behavior on the golf course.

If you have a child interested in golf, you would be well advised to point the youngster to a role model who exhibits more respect for the rules of the game, and for his fellow competitors, than Eldrick Woods. Michael Campbell, who exhibited unparalleled dignity and sportsmanship during his U.S. Open triumph over Woods, would make an excellent choice.

Copyright © 2005 Virgil A. Purser

A Legal Farce in California

I want to puke.

To paraphrase s fellow from the Michael Jackson child molestation case jury: "I do believe [Jackson] is a child molestor, but the prosecution did not build a convincing argument that he was guilty in this case."

Even as recently as twenty years ago, did you think you would live to see a day when hundreds, even thousands, of Americans applauded the release of a known child molestor?

Local Oaf Needs Head Examined

I just discovered a new breed of animal. I can describe them easily enough, but I’m at a loss for what to call the things. Perhaps you’ve run across them; they’re those smooth talking, jargon espousing, marginally criminal manipulators who prowl public forums searching for saps to fill their get rich quick pyramid schemes. They call themselves recruiters, but other names are more befitting. Ayn Rand would call them “looters.” My brother, world renowned wildlife writer Philip A. Purser, calls them “cult leaders.” I can’t quite decide between “shysters” and “shills,” but the real problem facing me is what to label myself after giving one of them an hour of my time. Idiot? Bonehead? Schmuck? I’m open to suggestion.

I should have seen it coming when the guy struck up a conversation with me in the grocery store restroom. I was on my way home from a wedding, dressed in a suit, thus his line began with a subtle compliment about my clothes. Not one to snub even a stranger, I engaged the conversation. He asked prying questions – where I worked, education, did I like my job, etc. The red flags were slapping me in the face, but when he said he had a partner who ran a consulting firm needing “people who work well with people,” I took the bait. I gave him my name and number, then left the store feeling strangely smug.

I agreed to meet him for an interview at nine o’clock on a Monday night in a hotel lobby. More than a little suspicious now, I dragged my brother along with me to throw the fellow off kilter if he was not legit. But I still harbored hope that the whole thing might be a bone fide job offer. I really should seek medical treatment for stupidity.

The “shyster” began his spiel by acting like I was his best friend in the world, sneaking in more personal questions (he was too stupid to realize he’d already asked them), but now I gave nebulous answers. The “interview” began, and within seconds, I wanted to wretch. Apparently, this guy’s members-only e-commerce site was the best thing since sliced bread. They marketed the number one vitamin supplement, number one energy drink, number three cosmetic line, and the best education program ever developed, but I heard no specifics about their products. I stayed the course, wanting to hear just how deep the fellow’s monologue would go, especially when his dumbed-down explanation of socio-economic stratification began. According to him, the Social Security Administration claims that only 2% of citizens will be able to retire at age 65. I had no idea that the intelligent, hardworking, financially prudent sector of the population had dipped so low. When I tried to question this inane statistic, the reply was “I’m not here to answer all your questions.” He nonetheless insisted that under his mentorship, I would become a commercial kingpin in the same league as Ted Turner and Bill Gates.

I was, thankfully, spared any more smoke and mirror tactics when my brother, heretofore silent, interjected.

“Wait a minute, buddy. You approached my brother in the bathroom of a [expletive deleted] Walmart, and you’ve got the audacity to talk down to him?”

The “interview” ended shortly thereafter.

I must admit I’m embarrassed, not because I ever intended to sign up for the program, but because the indicators were there and I still threw away an evening to meet with this leech. So, in the interest of public awareness, I wrote this column to point out a few of the red flags, and help save you some face, some time, and Lord knows how much money. The warning signs:

· At age 61, my father is practically a sage, and his wisdom is packaged in neat, simple psalms that anyone can commit to memory. This time, he advised me to “Never trust a man who propositions you in a shit house.”

· These “looters” won’t give you specific details about their programs until you’re neck deep in the substance from bullet one. When I asked pointed questions about product lines, inventories, and profit margins, this guy clammed up as though I’d dumped a glass of ice water in his crotch.

· The promises are grand, as in a hundred and fifty of them annually within five years. To make such an exorbitant sum, you’ll work only 12 – 15 hours a week. C’mon. How many deadbeat, self made millionaires do you know? Stevie Wonder could see through this crap.

Hopefully, when approached by such a shyster, you’ll know enough to avoid the situation. But, if you ever do stumble into a sales pitch like I did, you might as well have some fun. Make some unexpected comments that will have your self professed expert juggling to keep his song and dance routine intact. Some suggestions:

· As the session begins, exclaim violently, “You, sir, are a God send!” Then tell him how your last thirty one checks bounced and the IRS has your face plastered in post offices around the country.

· When he asks you to rate your ambition on a scale of one to ten, go “Uh, uhhh” until he glances at his watch, then say two, and explain that you only find yourself truly motivated when your cable TV hook-up goes on the fritz.

· Fake him out by really getting into it. Suggest that his health care division market snake oil. “It’s the next big thing, number one in the rapidly expanding field of mystical salves! We’ll make millions!” If he’s dumb enough to ask what snake oil is, tell him that each different specie of snake secretes a different natural essence, and their extracts are used by quacks to cure such maladies as the “yips” and the “delirium tremens.”

Next time I’m propositioned in the men’s room, I’ll poot loudly, sniff, then mutter that I can still smell the barbecue sauce. Maybe then I can carry on unmolested.

Copyright © 2004 Virgil A. Purser