Press 1 for Indifference, Press 2 for Confusion
Modern customer service is just a sleep-deprived improv troupe with a headset.
"How May We Pretend to Assist You Today?"
I called customer service last week and I think I accidentally dialed a tree. It made static noises, repeated my name five times, and then asked if I was “still having emotional issues with my router.” Hi. I’m no-one, and I’m here to confirm that modern tech support has entered its dadaist phase—equal parts performance art, sleep study, and ancient riddle.
The Decline and Fall of Customer Effort
There was a time, probably around the mythical year 2007, when tech support had this wizardly aura. You’d call, and someone with a voice like smooth jazz would calmly guide you through the ritual of fixing your DVD player by whispering “press input” and somehow also healing your relationship with your dad.
Now? You get a chatbot named Caleb who asks if you've tried sacrificing your first-born to the Wi-Fi gods, then connects you to a real human who clearly just woke up from a nap beneath their desk. Their name tag says “Stephanie,” but they audibly sigh like someone just asked them to build the Eiffel Tower using only soup.
The core vibe of customer service today is “teenager forced to clean the garage,” except instead of cobwebs and paint cans, they’re sifting through your existential despair and a 404 error.
“Have you unplugged it?”
Yes.
“Have you spiritually unplugged it?”
What?
You start wondering if you’re the problem. Maybe you’re old-fashioned. Maybe the new customer support model is just vibe-based. Like a jazz solo: disjointed, semi-conscious, and only coherent if you squint and accept chaos as a friend.
The Help Desk Is a Performance Art Piece Now
- Called my internet provider and the first question was "On a scale of 1–10, how would you rate your relationship with technology?" I hung up. Called back. Got the same person.
- When I emailed support for my smart fridge, they replied with a .gif of a raccoon using a laptop and the subject line: “we lookin into it bro.”
- A customer service survey asked me to rate the “emotional arc” of the conversation. I gave it a solid 3 stars for its plot twist when the agent forgot what company they worked for.
- A tech support rep once paused for five minutes, came back, and said, “Honestly, I don’t even believe in printers.”
- I asked a help desk to explain my warranty and was sent a meme of a skeleton at a desk with the caption “STILL WAITING.”
- I called an IRS “help” line during off-season hours, (available Monday through Friday, 10 a.m. to 2 p.m.) and all I got was front-row tickets to a looping hold music concert titled Flute Solos for the Eternally Audited.
“We Pretend to Help Because You Pretend to Believe Us”
So why are we doing this? Why, on this otherwise respectable digital soapbox, are we yelling into the absurd void of customer service? Because someone out there still believes in the ancient art of trying. Of showing up to work with a half-decent attitude, a basic understanding of routers, and maybe just a sprinkle of dignity. But somewhere along the way, the call center became a ghost ship. No one’s steering. The compass is a Magic 8 Ball. The crew is watching TikToks and vaping behind the firewall.
Maybe we’ve all become expert illusionists. The customers stay politely hollow. The agents simulate helpfulness. The systems glitch with conviction. It’s a collaborative improv exercise, and the only real tech solution is to accept the absurdity and scream into a modem for warmth.
“Thank You for Holding. Forever.”
Customer service used to be a lifeline. Now it’s a liminal space where logic goes to die and hold music is your only friend. But hey, if the world is going to descend into absurdity, at least let it be funny.