How not to give good customer service

When you're talking to a customer angry over an error made by your company and she says, obviously referring to the company, that "you erroneously deducted $100 from my account." Don't reply: "I didn't do anything."

Whatever happened to quicksand?

Daniel Engber:

If you're a 9- or 10-year-old at the P.S. 29 elementary school in Brooklyn, N.Y., you've got more pressing concerns: Dragons. Monsters. Big waves at the beach that might separate a girl from her mother. Thirty years ago, quicksand might have sprung up at recess, in pools of discolored asphalt or the dusty corners of the sandbox—step in the wrong place, and you'd die. But not anymore, a boy named Zayd tells me. "I think people used to be afraid of it," he says. His classmates nod. "It was before we were born," explains Owen. "Maybe it will come back one day."

Hmmm. I remember being afraid of quicksand. Also, improbably, tsetse flies, thanks to a neighbor kid's mother who assured us that there had been an influx of the creatures one summer. She warned us not to go to sleep if we got bitten, or we'd never wake up. I spent many a long night that summer trying to stay awake, afraid that one of the mosquito bites on my legs was really the work of a tsetse fly.

Her parents would be devastated

If they knew their daughter has slept with 1,000 men over 10 years. I'm guessing they won't notice the giant pic of "posh Christina Saunders [who] knows good sex" atop a story titled "Sex mad stunner copies romping antics of her hero" on the News of the World.

No Cary Grant

Not even a George Clooney lookalike is available at the California Cryobank sperm bank. Also, their lone Oliver Martinez lookalike--no longer available in case you're interested--is said to also resemble Cillian Murphy, who doesn't really look like Oliver Martinez.

Not to worry. There's a Mark Steyn as well as two versions of Anthony Edwards, 1.0 and a "Top Gun" version.

Via

Supermarket follies, II

This time I'm shopping for dinner. In the cart are a chicken, a bunch of asparagus, eight ounces of mushrooms and a spaghetti squash. The spaghetti squash was something of an impulse purchase. I'd actually been thinking about spaghetti squash a couple of days before--which shows you how boring my thinking is--when I spied one lone squash under a sign advertising spaghetti squash for $.79 a pound.

So off I go to check out. This time there are plenty of self-checkout registers available, but I don't do the self-checkout thing when I have produce. It's too much of a hassle; you have to keep going from screen to screen to identify the produce and often you can't find your item and all the while that stupid electronic voice is telling you to scan your next item or press finish and pay. Who needs the aggravation?

I get behind a guy with a cart's worth of groceries and wait. I'm not paying too much attention to the action ahead of me, but it all seems pretty standard: No missing UPC codes, no coupons that won't scan, no out-of-state checks that require a visit from the manager. The cashier, a tall young woman who vaguely resembles a melancholic giraffe, is scanning in the groceries in a business-like manner without any undue chitchat. Actually without any chitchat at all. Which is fine with me.

It's my turn. I've already put my groceries on the counter with the obligatory spacers separating my groceries from the guys ahead of and behind me. I offer my card and she scans. Time to scan the spaghetti squash. The cashier looks at the offending vegetable and takes a little cheat sheet out of her pocket. She punches in a number. I happen to look up at the screen: "Summer squash@$1.29 a pound."

"It's spaghetti squash," I say. "Not summer squash."

A small sigh as she reaches for the notebook on the side of the register where all the produce codes are kept. She's about to open the notebook when apparently she has an epiphany of sorts. She mutters something. Then, declares: "No. Not this time." Then she walks across the front of the store to the service desk.

Let me just interject, dear reader, that I made my remark without rancor. It was stated in a matter-of-fact tone. Nine times out of 10, I wouldn't have even noticed that she'd input the wrong squash into the register. And I probably wouldn't have said anything if I had. And I wouldn't have known the price of the spaghetti squash off the top of my head, either. But I had noticed this because the poor lonely spaghetti squash was offset from the rest of its friends in the the genus Cucurbita all by itself in a separate bin. I think it's also important to note the difference between a spaghetti squash and a summer squash. One summer squash at $1.29 a pound would probably cost around 50 cents. The heavier and much larger spaghetti squash rings in at almost $5. And those of us who have been woefully underemployed for nigh on 18 months can't be too careful.

Whatever. I don't actually get into the economics of the situation with our disconsolate ungulate as she scampers off before I can further enlighten her.

A pause ensues. I look back at the people behind me in line, now about 10 persons, and shrug my shoulders with a sheepish expression on my face to telegraph my apologies for having inadvertently become one of those people who hold other people up at the checkout counter. I'm thinking that identification of the offending vegetable might prove problematic as it is the only one in the store, it has no marks on it to identify it and the resident spaghetti squash expert is doubtless on vacation. I resolve to ditch the spaghetti squash.

The cashier approaches. I'm about to tell her to forget about the spaghetti squash when she reaches under the counter, grabs her purse and leaves the store. Apparently, I went too far. A girl can take all kinds of abuse, but when it comes to casting aspersions on her knowledge of squash varieties, well, she's just not gonna take that.

The woman from the service counter, who's right on the heels of the cashier, rings up the spaghetti squash as a supervisor comes up to me to apologize. I pay and go on my merry way.

I'm having the spaghetti squash for dinner tonight.

Supermarket follies, I

So I run into the grocery store to pick up the essentials--coffee and milk. At the front of the store the self-checkout lines are nonfunctioning and a woman apparently buying two months of groceries for an overcrowded prison is patronizing the only visible cashier. But the light is on at another register and I go over to investigate. No one is at the register and I sort of stand there gawking when a cashier comes over.

I put my grocery items on the belt and begin an in-depth investigation of the gum on display. Then I hear some sound coming from the direction of the cashier.

"I'm sorry," I say to the pudgy 20-something at the controls, "what did you say?"

A simultaneous sigh and roll of the eye followed by a deep breath: "DO (10 second pause while she inhales to ensure the proper volume, which is just a smidgen below a shout) YOU (10 second pause) WANT (10 second pause) YOUR (10 second pause) MILK (10 second pause) IN (10 second pause) A (10 second pause) BAG?"

"Do you always talk that way to customers?"

Eyes widen to mimic a look of injured innocence. "What?"

"Like I'm a retard. A deaf retard,' I explain. "Do you make it a practice to speak to customers in that tone."

More wide-eyed innocence. "I was just making sure you heard."

"Right. Save that tone for your mother."

A tad derivative

But not without its own charm: The Redneck Stonehenge.

Horror show

To the folks at the "Today" show, the world is a very scary place. Today we're being warned about the dangers of digging holes in the sand. Scary.

Yesterday, we were warned against driving over our kids in the lawnmower.

Thanks, "Today."

Kids these days

Seventeen high school girls pledged to become pregnant. And succeeded all too well.

School officials started looking into the matter as early as October after an unusual number of girls began filing into the school clinic to find out if they were pregnant. By May, several students had returned multiple times to get pregnancy tests, and on hearing the results, "some girls seemed more upset when they weren't pregnant than when they were," Sullivan says. All it took was a few simple questions before nearly half the expecting students, none older than 16, confessed to making a pact to get pregnant and raise their babies together. Then the story got worse. "We found out one of the fathers is a 24-year-old homeless guy," the principal says, shaking his head.

Another legacy of the disastrous George Bushitler administration.

Happy birthday, Mad Libs!

The word game turns 50.

The madness began in 1953, with a slight case of writer's block. At that time, Leonard Stern was a writer for The Honeymooners. One day, he was puzzling over a script, stymied by a description of Ralph Kramden's new boss' nose. His writing partner, the late Roger Price, had stopped by; they were supposed to be working on one of Roger's book ideas.

Stern recalled telling Price he would be right with him.

"No, we won't," Price said. "You're in your idiosyncratic-pursuit-of-a-word mode. I could be standing here for hours. Do you want help?"

Stern admitted he did. "I need an adjective that --" and before he could define the need, Price blurted out: "Clumsy and naked."

Stern started laughing. "Because now I had a round face and a clumsy nose, or, if you will, a naked nose. And they both worked."

When Price saw the results on the page, he started laughing, too. They realized they had a great new game on their hands, but no name for it yet. So for about five years, the two single men used it as nothing more than their own party game with an ulterior motive. "We got to meet a lot of attractive ladies," Stern said.

If your aunt had balls

But having a beard doesn't make you a man, medically that it is.

Breasts are out

The fashion world has never had much use for them. Luckily, they're not completely obsolete. In addition to their traditional function, you can also use them to make soap.

Viagra turns 10

"The scourge of email" has also ruined more than a few marriages.

Viagra has been blamed for promoting a scourge of unnaturally horny older men, whose newfound sexual prowess can throw a spanner into previously placid marriages.

'I am 62 years old and the mother of six grown children, and I was thrilled when my 64-year-old husband began to slow down about two years ago,' one woman wrote to US advice columnist Ann Landers.

'So now what happens? A pill called Viagra is invented, and the old goat is back in the saddle. I do love my husband, but I believe I have earned a rest. Besides, these pills cost 10 dollars apiece. Last week he had four.'

New York divorce lawyer Raoul Felder recently represented the wife of a 70-year-old who began cheating on her within days of first taking Viagra.

'Older men are more able to perform again, so they're going elsewhere - to younger, greener pastures,' Felder recently told the British newspaper, the Observer.

Possibly related news story: 1 Of 2 93-Year-Olds Charged In Manatee County Sex Sting.

In the case of Frank Milio, prosecutors have issued subpoenas and plan to take him to trial in April.

Milio, according to police records, tried to pay $20 in November to an undercover officer on 14th Street West.

Milio recently told the Herald-Tribune he was only flirting with the woman.

"I haven't had that in years," he said. "Ninety-three is kind of old."

No charges filed in MySpace suicide

Lori Drew can relax.

"Their purpose was never to cause her emotional harassment that we can prove," [St. Charles County Prosecutor Jack] Banas said. "There's a difference between what people think or what we may believe the reason was that they created this, it's what we can prove and what a jury would believe."

Banas said statements from the neighbor and two teens who participated in the fictitious account couldn't meet criminal standards for the state's statutes on harassment, stalking or endangering the welfare of a child.

"Their purpose was never to cause emotional harrasment"? I'd like to know what their purpose was, then.

Parents these days

What the hell is wrong with them?

Like this Internet hoaxer who allegedly bullied a child to death by posing as a cute boy on MySpace. This moral idiot wanted to see what the dead girl, Megan Meier, 13, was saying about her daughter with whom Megan had been friends. Yes, that's right, 48-year-old Lori Drew inserted herself in a squabble between two teenage girls not by acting like a mother and urging her daughter to get over the rift and move on, but by acting like a middle school student.

I don't know how familiar my readers are with teenage girls, but they're a volatile lot. I speak from experience, having been a teenage girl. I once didn't speak to my best friend for an entire summer because she refused to try on a pair of pajamas I gave her for her birthday. We had been inseparable until then. We were inseparable after that. During the interregnum, I vaguely remember my mother asking me what had become of my friend. I believe she sighed and called me an idiot when I explained the situation. The incident ended there as far as my mother was concerned.

Lori Drew chose a different course. She decided that the adult thing to do was to pose as a teenage boy, befriend Megan and then inexplicably turn on her and post nasty things about her on MySpace.

The mind boggles.

If someone living 70 miles or more away

Invites you to come visit "anytime" that's not a real invitation. A real invitation happens when someone living 70 miles or more away says "What are you doing the weekend of the ___?" Am I right?

Not so hot

Newsflash: Not very attractive people are less picky about the looks of their potential dates or mates than attractive people. Make that attractive people who are needy and desperate enough to post their photo on Hot or Not in the hopes of being thought attractive and then check their ratings every hour or so.

Other findings:

• Men were more open to potential dates than women, by 240 percent.
  
• Men were also much more generous in their appraisals than women.
  
• If you were on the receiving end of a request, then the likelihood of accepting increased if other Hot or Not users found the requester to be attractive.
  
• And if you were deemed attractive by the community, then you were more likely to be picky in saying yes to potential dates. For every point lower you scored on the Hot or Not 1-10 scale, the chances of saying yes to a potential date increased by 25 percent.
  
• There was no difference between how attractive and unattractive people rated other users.

I'm upset that I can't carry my cattle prod on the plane with me

I guess I'll have to check it, along with my kubatons, meat cleaver and throwing stars. Luckily, I won't have to do without my gel-filled bra or nail clippers.

Make your own lipstick

For the health-conscious among us.

Of course, wearing lipstick is hardly a modern phenomenon: Babylonian beauties were puckering up in ancient Mesopotamia 5000 years ago. Back then, lipstick could be rather hazardous. The ancient Egyptians created theirs using a mixture of a plant dye called Fucus-Algin, a dash of iodine and some bromine mannite. It produced a lovely red colour, but was unfortunately quite toxic, and often led to serious illness.

Other popular ingredients included a red dye made from crushed cochineal beetles, and fish scales - added for their pearlescent effect. Surprisingly, both of these are still used in commercial lipsticks and lip glosses today. And though bromine mannite isn't on the ingredients list any more, modern products may still contain substances we'd rather avoid. A recent study by Campaign for Safe Cosmetics, an American pressure group, raised concerns about the amount of lead found in one third of red lipsticks tested. Castor oil, used as a base ingredient in many lipsticks, can cause abdominal cramping and diarrhea if too much is ingested.

How much lipstick would you have to ingest, do you think, to come down with diarrhea? And what's the matter with fish scales and crushed beetles? We can all use the extra protein.

'A sociological Starbucks'

Kay Hymowitz on what she describes as the Single Young Female lifestyle or the globalization of "Sex in the City."

There’s much to admire in the New Girl Order—and not just the previously hidden cleavage. Consider the lives most likely led by the mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and so on of the fashionista at the Warsaw airport or of the hard-partying Beijing actuary. Those women reached adulthood, which usually meant 18 or even younger; married guys from their village, or, if they were particularly daring, from the village across the river; and then had kids—end of story, except for maybe some goat milking, rice planting, or, in urban areas, shop tending. The New Girl Order means good-bye to such limitations. It means the possibility of more varied lives, of more expansively nourished aspirations. It also means a richer world. SYFs bring ambition, energy, and innovation to the economy, both local and global; they simultaneously promote and enjoy what author Brink Lindsey calls “the age of abundance.” The SYF, in sum, represents a dramatic advance in personal freedom and wealth.

Hymowitz points out the downside of the SYF female lifestyle, too: Low fertility rates and aging populations. Still, I don't see how you can stop it. How ya gonna keep them down on the farm after they've seen Paree?