Dislike Father, Like Son

(My father is having an issue with his prepaid cell phone that I haven’t been able to fix. I tell him to call the service provider. I am making dinner when I hear yelling in the other room, so I go running in.)

Operator: *with strong Indian accent* “Sir, can you please confirm your father’s middle name?”

Father: “What? What did you say? Speak English for the love of f***ing God!”

(Note: I have a head cold and am nearly deaf from the pressure in my ears, yet I understand the operator just fine.)

Operator: “I need you to confirm your security question, sir. Please, what is your father’s middle name?”

Father: “I don’t know what you’re saying! Why can’t you just fix my phone?”

Me: “Dad, give me the phone.”

(I proceed to spend 45 minutes on the phone with the operator trying to figure out what my lunatic father has done to his account. It turns out that he registered the account with his name and my mother’s information. The operator finally managed to fix everything and was just about to end the call.)

Father: “I want his name, address, and phone number before you hang up!”

Me: “Um… why?”

Father: “I’m going to complain about him. D*** foreigner needs to speak English! I can’t understand a thing he’s saying.”

Me: “Seriously? He just spent nearly an hour fixing the account you screwed up and you want to complain? What is wrong with you?” *to the operator on the phone* “Thank you for your help. I’ll handle my father from here…”

(Operator, wherever you are from, thank you for putting up with jacka**es like my dad. Not all of us are belligerent and bigoted.)