So, I worked today on this fine Labor Day. As a result of this working, I talked to a lot of people who usually wouldn’t be home and calling me on a Monday afternoon.

An important thing to remember about the people I talk to all day long is that while they all use Earthlink for internet access, they also are all customers of USAA. That usually means they are either currently in the service or most often have retired from it.

Today I talked to a man named David DeLuca. I cannot give you his e-mail address as that most certainly would be a violation of his privacy. I can however tell you that he is a PhD. Or atleast the information he gave us says he is.


Mr. DeLuca called me, around 4:30 PM today, piss drunk, to complain about his internet access and his e-mail set up which he did not understand. Here are some things he said which I immediately jotted down:

“I hope you’re not one of those guys who gets mad about four letter words because I have a fucking load of them for you.”

This was said after the call began and he launched into a several expletive introduction that I was so caught off guard by I didn’t get it jotted down in time to commit it to memory. You’ll have to believe me that it was brilliant.

We then moved onto a billing issue.

“Who the fuck am I fucking paying every fucking month? Fucking you?”

The voice of a generation, I am sure. The valedictorian of his graduating class, I’m positive.

We then moved onto discussing the notes that the previous technician had left.

Mr. DeLuca had this to say:

“If he said that, he’s fucking full of shit…and…and…and…A FUCKING LIAR!”

Harsh words there, Doc.

He then described his e-mail problem to me and I commented that what was happening shouldn’t be happening under normal circumstances. That really, cheesed him off.

“Shouldn’t happen or doesn’t happen? There’s a lot of guys in Iraq who shouldn’t be getting their asses blown off!”

I asked him next, which version of windows he was running.

“I have a fucking PhD! But it’s not in fucking computers!”

It’s also not in fucking English, I’m guessing.

Now though, he was really pissed off. And still for the most part, I didn’t have a clue what the hell his problem was.

He had this to contribute:

“Ok, listen: I have a PhD in hostage negotiation! The next time someone comes into your fucking building and wants to fucking blow your ass off, I’m the guy they’ll call to save you!”

Hostage negotiation, can this get any better? Can it? I’m barely keeping from cracking up at this point.

Finally, Mr. DeLuca calms down a little bit. He can see that I’m not going to go into hysterics because he knows how to say the word fuck and is really pissed off. I hear a can cracked open in the background. I’m almost envious.

We hammer away at his problem for a few more minutes and get to a point where he can hang up to see if I’ve fixed his problem (which I haven’t because he’s still a drunk asshole, but the computer is squared away).

“If this goddamn thing doesn’t work I’m gonna take out my big goddamn gun and fucking shoot it!”

All I can say is that I’m relieved he said it and not you.

I also need to mention that he kept talking about being a Vietnam Vet. I don’t know what the jungle did to our boys, friends, but it scares me.


don’t worry about rejections, pard,
I’ve been rejected

sometimes you make a mistake, taking
the wrong poem
more often I make the mistake, writing

but I like a mount in every race
even though the man
who puts up the morning line

tabs it 30 to one.

I get to thinking about death more and




writing purple poetry with a
dripping pen

when the young girls with mouths
like barracudas
bodies like lemon trees
bodies like clouds
bodies like flashes of lightning
stop knocking on my door

don’t worry about rejections, pard.

I have smoked 25 cigarettes tonight
and you know about the beer.

the phone has only rung one:
wrong number.

-Charles Bukowski; –For Al, from Love Is A Dog From Hell