ASOS, Yuh Dun Goofed.

It’s been a long time, I shouldn’t have left you. At least I’ve got a story to tell, boo. And boy, is it a doozy:


For those unfamiliar with my life, I’ve been EXTREMELY tired lately. I have, however, still been blogging a bit. Perhaps Tumbl-ing is a better verb, but I have been into some sort of activity. Anyway, my tumblr is mainly focused on my journey to girliness, where I take pictures of myself in dresses and stuff, gauge opinions on hair and makeup, and learn how to be more girly. In conversations and through some of my Twitter connections, I learned about a company that had gotten rave reviews about the style, fit, and even delivery. I was determined to learn more about this company.

After working for a bit, perhaps after my second paycheck, I registered with ASOS, and got to shopping. I was excited about my first spree- there were dresses, skirts, and a couple of tops. I won’t mention the amount spent, because frankly, that matters not. Placed my order on the 17th, and it shipped by the 19th. Their shipping schedule says 8 “working days,” but as the patient princess I am, I gave it until the end of the month. I made up excuses for them, thinking it could have been held up by customs, they couldn’t find me in the cornfields, or something. Either way, I penned a query to Customer Care, and recieved this response, after the canned response of  “we have your question, now wait for an actual person to reply (click to make these bigger) :”

I decided to give them the benefit of a doubt (figuring Royal Mail must be as much of a pain as the USPS can be sometimes- see my last angry letter), and wait those extra days, even though my sh*t “should of” arrived by the 29th. On the day before, October 10th, I sent another email. It was a Sunday, and I was about sure the parcel wasn’t arriving.  After the obligatory canned response, I got this: 

I waited 24 hours, pretty much RIGHT after the clock struck 12 on the 12th to pen a new one, simply asking for what they would do next. Patience would win out, right? So, of course, I got the canned response, then this:

 Aw… HAYLE NAWL!! I waited damb near a month to receive this package, and all you can say is “welp, here’s your money back?” Not even an offer to resend what I ordered in the first place, perhaps express shipping? Something to make me think you give a sh*t about keeping my money hostage for so long? I was trying to give them a chance, but this is not the way to do it. I stressed the fact that this was my FIRST ORDER for a reason- your first impression of a company is one that lasts. In the case of ASOS, this one burns, and not in that pleasant way they depict in contraceptive commercials. I wrote this in response:

I took to Twitter too. ASOS apparently searches its name, and I was ambushed by their “Here To Help” account, armed with smiley faces… I’ll just let you see their responses to me, and I’ll post my response to them (at this point, I was sufficiently pissed, and wanted nothing more but to speak with a person). Read down to up, as Twitter be backwards:

In the meantime, they provided me with this “generous offer,” via e-mail:

Ten. Frickin. Puhsents. Is that enough, friends? I don’t think so. A simple Google search leads me to a bajillionty ten percent offer codes. I’d rather have talked to a live person than a crappy email exchange over the course of several days, too. My excitement turned from disappointment to full-on-pisstivity during the duration of this experience, and I am making good on my promise to let the world know. Simply put, ASOS, Yuh Dun Goofed. I can’t and I won’t put my funds into a company that doesn’t even CARE about how customers are treated. It’s such a sad day when you can’t even get excited about the things others love, but this one experience has been… well, exquisitely torturous hell. I promise, I am waiting for that refund, and it better be correct down to the LAST penny. You lost a customer before you even had a chance to wow me with your stylistic offerings, at least I could have had a chance to try on a dress before I decided I hated you.

Shoutout to that package that’s probably floating in the ocean, chilling and stuff.

What I want to know, friends, is have you ever experienced crappy customer service, even in the face of unshakable patience? What did you do? How was it resolved? Should I give ASOS another chance to wow me with this measly ten percent?

Lawd, I’m pissed. Fawk a sprinkle. This is some bull-shiggity.


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Amerie: The Glass Case of FAIL Entraps Her.

Prequel: It was about 2003. I was (still) in high school, and found the most awesome hair dresser ever. She gave me free stuff all the time, and I had started to become addicted to shampoo head massages. It always smelled good, and was quiet due to her operating solely and having the sense to not double-book folks and keep you in there all day. Her shop became a place of refuge for me. The place even had a soundtrack: wafting softly through the speakers was this relaxed voice. I had to find out who she was…

She was going places, yo.

Enter Amerie Mi Marie Rogers, a gorgeous young lady who I thought (at the time) would be going places, especially considering the appeal the record “All I Have” had. I STILL play that record. I figured she could hop on the train with Jill Scott ‘nem, and we’d have another soul girl that would eventually come into her own.

Too bad optimism said, “NAWL, girl!” and proceeded to push, not shove, her into the glass case of FAIL that currently surrounds her. Everything she’s laid her hand to has failed, at least in the music sense. I’m sure she has a healthy marriage and relationship with her children, and who wouldn’t, when your album sales are going Styrofoam cup? Let’s discuss her journey into the never ending spiral of FAIL.

  • Touch: The 2005 album that gave us her “new image,” this whole good girl playing bad girl dress up shtick, which only worked for Rihanna. Started out with the single “1 Thing,” which annoyed me to no end with that whole “NOMMA NOMMA NOM- OH!” chant in the background, and was just all kinds of high-pitched and squealy. Then she released that bore of a song, “Touch.” I don’t even have the energy to critique that without my eyelids drooping over.
  • That European Album from 2007: Actually, I don’t have anything to say about that… By this time, I had given up all hope of her giving me what made me a fan in the first place. It was almost like an amicable breakup: I wish you well, but I’m not really checkin’ for you no more.
  • Adding that Wretched Second ‘I’ To Her Name: What does it mean? What is its purpose? Twitter was a-buzz with their musings behind the meaning (irrelevant, ignorant, identity crisis… and the list goes on), while all I could do was shake my head… Speaking of heads, that leads me to her next stunt:
  • THIS:
WHAT?! I’da just told them I got attacked by a Clorox-wielding toddler.

    In an interview given to Rap-Up magazine (insert photo credit here), she states her inspiration for this… well, I don’t know what to call it:

    “One of the things that inspired me are photos I’ve seen of children in the Solomon Islands. They are very brown-skinned, and a lot of them grow white-blonde hair naturally. The contrast in dark skin tone and extremely light hair is really beautiful to me. So I just went for it!”

    Uh… Amii? Sweetie? Children can pull that look off, because their faces filled with joy, love, and mass amounts of sugar carry them. You, however, should have not passed go, and given the hairstylist the $200 to fry, dye, and blow dry your mane into what I believe will be a crumbly disaster by November. I don’t see the contrast in her features anymore! She was gorgeous to begin with… why she keep doing stuff like this?

    I believe she needs to consult with a counselor, or at the very least, her Sassy Gay Friend. The glass case of FAIL has locked her up, and won’t let her out. Somebody’s got to free her. I say this out of love.

    Let’s discuss: Any other people you know of that spiral endlessly into the realm of FAIL, and seemingly don’t want help? 

    Love and (appropriately colored) Sprinkles,

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    Wait A Minute, Mister Postman. I Think You Forgot Something…

     Hello, Friends.

    Have you ever had a day that was pretty much normal until… the end? That happened to me the other day. I realized sometime last week that one of my Netflix rentals (The Proposal with Sandra Bullock Betty White) had not come. I figured the problem was with Netflix, so I reported that I hadn’t received it, got a new one sent the next day, done. AFTER I had watched the video in question and was ready to send it back, I receive a little tidbit in the mail from our lovely US Postal Service:

    They cared… enough to not send my vidjo.

    This, my friends… has never happened in the 24 years, 10 months, and how many ever odd days I have been alive on this fair planet. Never. Of course, my first thought is “why are they sending me the flap with my address on it, sans video?” Better yet, WHY did they deem it was necessary to send me the Ziplock bag equivalent of a Chris Brown apology bow tie? Seriously, I need to know what the point of it all was.

    In the middle of my random outrage, I penned this letter, FROM MY PHONE, and uploaded it to Tumblr. I was mad, yo. Real mad. Shar Jackson.

    Dear Postmaster: I sincerely regret that my mail was damaged due to a disgruntled Postal Worker. This incident inconvenienced me greatly, because I had to wait DAYS to see The Proposal, starring Sandra Bullock and that douchy guy featuring Betty White. BETTY WHITE, dambit! I expected my mail not only to be delivered in good condition, but also timely. You screwed not only me, but Netflix, by making them look bad.

    I understand that mail is frequently damaged because your basement trolls like to rifle through the good stuff before it’s actually distributed. That’s why my mama can’t send me no Florida mangoes no more, ya bastids.

     I completely understand. You’re in the middle of training a new fleet of uniformed dummies, so you sent this piece of a Netflix envelope with my name and address in a Ziplock bag in order to say, “Welp, we tried.” Luckily, Netflix sent the video 4 days ago, and I got my Betty White fix.

    I’m sure you’ll screw up again, so as far as accepting your apology, I’d rather not waste that breath of air when you’ll put my electric bill in the neighbor’s box tomorrow. F your existence.


    I may have been a bit harsh, but… does this happen in real life, or just to me? Should I continue to write letters for the healing and to get things done? Has any kind of random mailing mishaps come your way? If so, share… I bet this wouldn’t have happened if I was in the suburbs. 

    Switching to FedEx for Sprinkle Deliveries,

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    (That’s Just) Everyone’s Baby Daddy

    Oh, people, I swear sometimes, this news just comes to me, like an epiphany (shouts to Chrisette)… Anyway, there’s a guy in Tennessee who’s been making his rounds, literally. Desmond “Fertile the Turtle” Hatchett, all of 29 years old, had a pretty rough day in child support court. Rough only because he had 11 appearances, due to cases for 15 of his 20 (on paper, but may just be 21) children…

    Here’s the link to the story.

    [Lil Jon Voice] WHATTTTTTT?!?!? [/Lil Jon Voice]

    Just to give you a recap of some of the facts gathered:

    • 21 kids, in Knoxville TN (Just make sure you get a goooood look at the pic below, ladies, if you happen to travel there.)
    • Works a minimum wage job, and by TN law, child support can’t take more than 50% of his paycheck, which after divvied between a billion 20 something kids, leaves the mothers with less than a whopping $2 a month. What can you feed a child with that?
    • The children’s ages range from newborn to 11 years old. Turtle was definitely gettin’ it poppin’ (and not like Mr. Brown). He even claims that he had 4 kids in one year- twice. *Why, Lawd… Why???* His only explanation? “It just happened.”
    • Sir Fertileness also states that he is done having children. Why, pray tell, could he have not been done, hmm, about 15-19 births ago?

    Facts Stuff I gathered based on this “evidence”:

    • He’s not very bright. And now he’s the babydaddy of Knoxville.
    • The women he procreated with weren’t very bright, either. How do you sit, stand, or lay with a man that you know has enough kids to make up 3 Quidditch teams? **for those unfamiliar with Potter, Quidditch teams usually have 7 players, pre-injuries.** For real though, he couldn’t have sat next to me on the bus, or paid for lunch. Get thee away, ol’ Professional Copulation Expert!
    • Times like these make me kind of understand why some folks push for sterilization so passionately. When all you can offer as an answer is “It just happened,” you should have had the right to knowingly or unknowingly create children ages ago.
    • Our sense of family is seriously on the decline. We need to get better, world.
    • The real victims in this: the children. 🙁 Their standard of life will always be shortchanged, since I’m sure (not being a jerk about it, but just saying) none of the parents involved have past a high school education- hence the reason that Dad works minimum wage and can only give you 2 bucks a month to split with your brother. Mom’s probably working about the same rate, so who foots the bill? We already know who… I pray that their lives turn out better than what I assume will be.

    Who that ee-uh?
    That’s just errrbody baby daddy!

    Consider this a Public Service Announcement.

    Responsibly Yours,

    PS- Happy Birthday to my little buddy Ollie, who’s celebrating her 1st birthday today!!

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    Oh, We’re Gonna Have Fun with This One…

    … as soon as I get rested. For preview’s sake, I introduce to some and reacquaint with others… The Body Snake!!

    Random foot-jolly getting contraption free with purchase.

    Edits- 3:00 p.m.

    Now that I’ve gotten a full morning’s worth of sleep, I can now comment on the ridiculosity known as the Body Snake…

    • Do we have to mention that it’s “Made in America” so many times? As if France or Germany has a problem with people who can’t reach their own backs and feet. An overindulgence of indulgencies, if you will.
    • I’m sorry, but if I have to choose between getting this to wash my feet in the shower or losing weight, I’m dialing *sings* 1-800-*insert year* JENNY! Nuh-uh. I can’t do this. That’s why the guy in the shower was frustrated. He hasn’t seen his feet since Good Times was canceled.
    • The foot cleaner- straight creepy. Looks like your foot is doing something, well, *ahem* inappropriate. Foot washing should be neither fun nor convenient. Don’t bring innocent loofahs into your kinkiness.
    • Like the teacher from South Park who doesn’t trust anything that bleeds for days and doesn’t die, I’m not buying that water will pass through this conniption and never mold. Washcloths: mold. Carpets: mold. Furniture: mold. Natty locks: mold.* Small children left unkempt: mold.** I think you get the idea… that thing will mold, and for $25 too!

    Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!

    *No offense to any of my locked brothers and sisters, just wanted to illustrate a point. If you keep yours clean and lovely, you are a lovely soul. :*)

    **For moldy baby reference, click here.

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    Bus Presence

    Since I don’t have a car, riding the bus has always been a thing of my life- I always have a bus schedule in my bag, and have CU-MTD (It’s separated for a reason- now shut it!) on speed dial, where you can call at anytime to see where the bus is, get put on hold to Weird Al’s “Another One Rides the Bus” for 1.5 minutes, and get the person on the line at the same time your bus is rounding the corner- thanks. The reason I write today is to offer an incentive to all of you to work on your “Bus Presence”- the way people see you as you ride public transportation. I know, we’re at the age to not care what people think and “do selves”- insert any pronoun here, but we are fully aware of the persona we portray when in public. For example, most of the time, I don’t like to be bothered on the way to work, so my bus presence is the “too busy for us with her iPod and smartphone” girl. You try, go on. Don’t all do it at once.

    Not my bus, but you get the idea. Why is it so packed and everyone’s still smiling?

    Annnnyyyyyy-whooooo, I was coming back from a Target run (I choose the red dot over the smiley on principle- sue me), when a few stops later, a man, a lady, and a baby get on. Harmless enough, right? Well, I thought so too, until it registered in my brain that the woman, man, or both smelled like cigarretes and bologna– eww much? Maybe my senses were off, but there was nowhere else for me to move, and since Mother Nature is currently shaking us up in her snowglobe called “Life, Muvva-Effas!”, I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. I called it “cig-aloney” for the duration of my trip.

    A bit of the way, I heard a noise from the back. It sounded like a long, monotonous “Eeeeeeeeeeeee, *pause for breath* eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee”, and I realized there was someone possibly with a mental/developmental condition. In the midst of the person “communicating” (could be that he wasn’t intentionnally doing it, but it didn’t sound like he was distressed or anything), “cigaloney” decided to turn her ugly arse face around.

    Note- under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have been classified as ugly (no homo– hee hee!), but when your body possesses an odor that is “offensive to all five of the senses” ala Peter Griffin, you have revoked the right to your “cute girl discount.” I prayed that they would get off before me, and every stop closer to mine, they just didn’t budge. My prayer life incresed significantly during the bus ride- it just wasn’t right, I say! Anyway, when I got to my stop, I hopped off the bus so fast, I didn’t realize something fell out of my bag- stoopid hair products.

    Moral of the story:
    Just say no to cigaloney?
    Um, don’t forget your iPod to serve as the prime distraction?
    the wheels on the bus go round and round, despite all setbacks?

    Okay, I got it:
    No matter where I go, randomness will follow. Enjoy! Next up: a catalogue of guys in skinny jeans, well, maybe.

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