Vacuum Cleaners Don't Suck!

Well, yes they do. Wait... No, they don't. I mean they don't suck in the way you'd want them to suck, but on principle, they figuratively suck.

I'm not sure what the deal is. Vacuum cleaner manufacturers have made a killing off of planned obsolescence. Back in the day, when our vacuum cleaner would (inevitably) break, I'd take it in to some guy to fix it. He'd either laugh and tell me buying a new one would be cheaper or I'd wait for months for him to get around to it. In fact, one time I lugged our cleaner into a vacuum repair shop where the hard-to-understand owner tried to sell me a new one instead of repairing it "because he didn't want to deal with it."

I've never met a vacuum cleaner I didn't hate.

My long-time hatred for vacuum cleaners goes back to my youth. At the time, my then-wife decided to have a vacuum cleaner salesman call on us (to get our free trip to Branson for listening to his spiel {of which we never used; all the hoops you have to jump through to "qualify" just wasn't worth it}). This kid's tactics were shameless, using guilt ("Just look at the dirt I picked up from your cushion; I know you're better parents than that."), shame ("Do you really want your baby crawling in filth?"), lies ("Hmmm...let me call my boss and see if I can take off twenty bucks."), and other completely transparent ploys. Even though I was ready to boot the jackass outta our house, my wife bought into it.

So... For the incredibly low, low price of $1,200 dollars, we got the super-fantastic, highly deluxe vacuum cleaner of the century! Pretty horrible when  you have to take out a loan to get a vacuum cleaner.

Of course, the Super Megatron Vacuu-Suck 2,000 quit working after a month.

No wonder dogs hate vacuum cleaners so much.

It really doesn't matter how much you spend on a vacuum, they're all built to fail. If I was of a conspiracy bent, I'd say that vacuum cleaner companies secretly build their wares with a month-long shelf life. And clearly--CLEARLY--they're in cahoots with Consumer Reports. Why? Because--get this--Consumer Reports claims that the median life of a vacuum cleaner is eight years.

EIGHT YEARS??? I've rarely had one that's lasted a year. And that's a rarity. Our basement is pretty much a vacuum graveyard full of the corpses of long-dead cleaners. (Some day I'll figure out why I don't just toss them out.)

My vacuum curse isn't limited to me. Apparently the sins of the father have been passed down to my daughter. For the short period of time she's owned a house, she's gone through about six cleaners. One day, while she was at work, I attempted vacuuming for her and all the "cleaner" did was blow dirt around.

My wife said, "Did you read the manual?"

I rolled my eyes in disbelief. Everyone knows men aren't supposed to read manuals or instructions. If you do, you may as well hand in your Man Card immediately.

In 2015, a French law was passed that demanded manufacturers display how long their appliances would last. The French got one thing right (don't even get me going on Jerry Lewis). If that law were passed here, dozens of vacuum cleaner manufacturers would be put out of business, the stock market would crash, Democrats and Republicans would have a Kumbaya come-together moment, your basic end-of-the-world scenario.

Suck it, Hoover!

Speaking of shameless, sucky things, why not check out my Zach and Zora books? The comic mystery series pulls out all the stops, knows no boundaries of good taste, and is guaranteed to tickle your inner eleven year old. That's a guarantee!* But don't take my word for it. Check 'em out here!

*Guarantee void in all English-speaking countries.

Return of the Furnace Sadists

Just when my wife and I thought we were warming up again after the Big Freeze-Out of 2022 (see "Maple Avenue Freeze-Out"), those sadists from the HVAC rip-off outfit show up again at our doorstep, wearing ear-to-ear smiles, little cute footsy protectors, and dollar signs in their eyes.

I suppose it's our fault, really. I mean, the HVAC company pestered us and bugged us about setting up our yearly furnace maintenance check-up (Ka-Chinggggg!), until we finally bowed down to furnace bullying. I know that Americans never give in to terrorism, but they'd worn us down. So on the eighteenth call, my wife says, "Okay, fine, we'll schedule it soon."

The next day, the mysterious Furnace Phone Lady (I'm not even sure she's real!) calls back and says, "Say, we had a sudden cancellation today in our schedule and have a technician ready and eager to come out and pleasure your furnace (or something like that)!" It's the second time they've used that ploy on us. But just wanting to put them in our rear-view mirror, we gave in. (Ka-Ching, Ka-Chinggggg!)

Sure enough, within 45 minutes the duo of Tony (short, dark, swarthy like a 60's crooner, smooth-talking lead guy) and Bart (stout, friendly, all-American, ginger-haired and bearded lumberjack trainee) are grinning on the stoop. Meanwhile, one of my dogs is going crazy, ready to take a bite out of furnace crime. She showed good taste, but I restrained her, while I let the true beasts inside.

We went through the usual rigamarole, Tony reciting his speech, which I knew by heart and started saying it along with him. I leave the guys to get to work in the basement, this time foregoing my offer to give them a cup of coffee. (I used to think this might soften them up, make them not want to rip me off as much, but to hell with that! I've doled out more than a few cups of $4,000 coffee in the past, surely they can now afford their own.) I go upstairs and pray to the Furnace Gods to go gently on us this time and offer them a sacrificial pot of coffee.

After three hours of chit-chatter from the basement, numerous phone calls (NEVER a good sign), and no word, I finally go down to check on them.

"Well, there's good news and bad news," says swarthy and smooth Tony with his hair teased to well-coiffed points. 

I force swallow the goose-egg of dread in my throat and feel it plummet down to my gut like a weighted-down "goodfella" tossed into a lake. "Okay...what's the good news?"

"Your humidifier filter is in beautiful shape," Tony offers with car salesman sincerity. "Looks like it's never been used."

Good ol' Bart smiles, sticks his hands in his pockets, and nods.

"Huh," I manage, now in a walking daze of torment. "And the bad news?"

"The reason your filter is in such good shape is because your humidifier isn't working."

"Oh..."

"Looks like your humidistat (I think they make these words up to non-technical rubes such as myself) is busted." Tony says it with a smile. No...a leer.

Bart nods, a very empathetic nod. Good cop/bad cop.

"I...see." But, really, the only thing I could see was our bank account flying away on the wings of an angel. "And how much will that cost me?"

Tony flips a curl out of his eye--the way Fabio used to do it--and pretends to consult his iPad, although I'm pretty sure he and Bart have already conspired to come up with a magnificent number. "Let's see..." Annoyingly, Tony makes a clicking sound with his mouth as he pretends to check some numbers. "Looks like...about $695."

"What??? We just blew thousands on the furnace a couple weeks ago! Why didn't they catch it then?"

Tony stares at me blankly while Bart nods, displaying sympathetic, round dog-eyes.

"Okay, fine, whatever," I say. "How long will it take for the part to come in?"

"Oh!" Tony's face brightens. (Ka-Ching, Ka-Ching, Ka-Chinggggg!) "I just happen to have one in the van!"

Of course you do, I thought. "Fine. Let's do it," I say instead. These guys have perfected the art of planned obsolescence.

Another hour later, Tony comes upstairs, banging around the huge-ass furnace filter (just like those chain oil-change places always do), with Bart nipping at his heels.

"I think you need a new furnace filter," says Tony. "I mean, just look at it." He displays it like Vanna White, with a toothy enough grin to give her a run for the money.

"And how much will that cost?"

Tony goes through his imaginary iPad search again. "Lessee...uh-huh...yep...uh-huh...$175 dollars."

"Well," I said, more than a little miffed and ready for some payback, "I really wanted to look for those on Amazon. Pretty sure they carry them. And at a lot cheaper price, too. Oh! But I'm not supposed to talk about that, am I?" 

Bart lets out a laugh and a genuine smile. Tony shoots him a look. Then there's silence. Silence like the suffocating silence before a Spaghetti Western shoot-out. My eyebrow raises. Tony's eyes squint. Bart stifles another laugh. Somewhere Ennio Morricone music is playing. Tony opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. His jaw lowers and closes several times, resembling a land-locked fish.

Finally, he says, "Well...what you're really paying for is the convenience of us having it." A smile inches back, but this time not as assured.

I twist the sweet, sweet knife of revenge. "Oh, you mean it's more convenient than Amazon delivering it to my door?"

Bart laughs again. Probably his last laugh ever on the job.

I had my moment. Now, I just wanted to get them out of my house. Either that or unleash my dog on 'em.

While I'm thinking about wild animals tearing apart humans, have you guys checked out my darkly comical and horrific werewolf book, Corporate Wolf, yet? Well, do it already! Or I'll sic the furnace sadists from hell on ya!