You never learn more about customer service than you do when you’re in the trenches of a Great War.
There I was, in WWI, being attacked on all sides by the Vietnamese jungle, when I found myself out of Adult Diapers.
With my Portable Vending Machine out of commission, due to its wheelbarrow’s tire having been shot off by IRS agents, I was in desperate need of assistance.
That’s when I saw him. He floated down from the clouds like a bronzed statue of Beyonce, wearing golden roller skates and a nametag that said, “Kevin.”
I noticed Kevin was carrying a scroll, and without reading it I knew its contents. This was The Lost Secrets of Customer Service, rumored to have burnt up with the Library of Alexandria.
That’s when a #TruthBomb exploded next to me, leaving me disoriented and discombobulated.
As if by osmosis, I was absorbing all The Archaic Wisdom of The Sages Throughout The Ages.
I felt empowered, as if I could hop directly from being a fry cook at McDonald’s all the way up to cashier, maybe even surpassing the friendliness and performance of The Kiosks, who make great friends, but poor co-workers, both because they stole all the glory that should have been mine and because they don’t get paid for the work that they do.
No longer would Dennis, my 16-year-old boss, treat me like I was some sort of needy infant, always demanding money in exchange for labor. Now Dennis would see my True Value, and would reward me accordingly. Soon I’d be richer than Solomon, and wiser too, armed with the knowledge obtained in this book.
I’m rating this book five stars, because Amazon caps the limit. But if I could, I’d rate it like Abraham’s seed, as it deserves to accumulate all the stars of heaven. This is a book for all generations, and the best time to buy it is yesterday. But you can’t, so I suppose RIGHT NOW is the silver medalist of perfect times to buy.
Linda Sands is great. How great is she?
-She’s as great a writer as the Great Pyramid of Giza is triangular.
-If her writing came in liquid form, I’d drink it, bathe in it, and freeze it to rub on my nipples.
-I would compare her work to Hemingway’s, but that’s be insulting–to her.
-If her writing were a dinosaur, it wouldn’t be extinct, and it would eat plants, animals, active imaginations, and hopefully all of my student loan debt.
-If her writing were the Eiffel Tower, then I’d change my name to Pierre, move to France, and take up painting centenarians in the nude (not that I don’t do that already).
-If her writing grew on trees, you know it’d be organic and make the tastiest smoothies.
-If her writing showed up to a knife fight, it’d be the only one carrying a gun. And if I showed up, I’d show up late, and I’d be the only guy with a fork.
-If her writing were a stripper, I’d have spent much more than three bucks trying to get a peek.
-If her writing were a marathon, my feet would be bleeding from running it over and over again. Somebody get me some Band-Aids!
-And finally, If her writing has no objections, I’d like to name my firstborn child after it.