My Resolution - or one of them

My NY resolution is to destroy the reputation of a major (or once major) retailer. I'm sure that the first to come to mind would be Walmart. NO!!! I LOVE Walmart! I shop there every week. I just try not to stare at the funny folk who shop there.

I won't out and say their name but their initials are S-E-A-R-S.

About four weeks ago our washing machine died. It had been doing its job well enough even though it sounded like a freight train on the spin cycle. My partner went shopping at our local "S" appliance center. He told the salesman exactly what he wanted and was promised delivery within three days. The new appliance was delivered on a Saturday. The first problem: not the machine that my partner ordered. The second problem: the machine didn't work. Back to the "S" store on Sunday. The salesman told us how lucky we were to get a more expensive machine at the lower machine price. He told us what we were failing to do to make the machine do its job. Well, stupid us! Let's follow those directions and get caught up on the laundry!

One small problem, the machine still doesn't work!

Back to that store again! We are told that the machine that my partner ordered would be delivered . . . but not until the following Saturday. Patience! All that is promised will be delivered.

Comes the next Saturday. The delivery men arrive. The new machine is removed from its carton outside our home. All is well with the world . . . NOT! It's the same machine; the very one that doesn't work, the very model that they will be removing. I summon my partner from work.

He arrives home ready to tear the delivery guys a new . . . how should I say? A new poop-chute.
Words are exchanged. Phone calls made. Nothing is resolved. In frustration I call the newly delivered miracle machine a "fucking piece of shit." This offends one of the delivery gentlemen, who looks every bit the part of an escaped convict. My "cursing" offends his tender senses. He hasn't been so offended since he dropped the soap in the shower at Gratersford Prison.

Our knights in shining armor make a rapid retreat. The ex-con not able to leave without first calling me a faggot. Faggot? Wasn't that a word last used in the 60's? Or maybe he heard that in the prison shower? As in: Grab your ankles, Faggot!

Back to the "S" store. No one knows how to resolve this situation. In the end it's a reluctant refund. When I mention that one guy called me a faggot, I was told that was here-say. But the fact that the "faggot" cursed was fact.

In the end. Lowes gave us satisfaction. My advice: If you are a "faggot" stay away from the "S" store.