"What can brown do for you?" That's the mantra that the United Parcel Service lives by, and, based on my recent experiences with them, will die by. If the past two and a half weeks are any indication, brown can't do diddly for me. Speaking of which, brown is an apt color scheme for them; it's the most accurate metaphor for their shitacular service. From now on, my mind will forever equate UPS's palette with steaming piles of Doberman dookie.
All I wanted was my damn poster that I ordered from the Obama store (P.S. our next President will be Black! Except for his white half, of course). All I got was two delivery notices, incompetent service reps trying to talk me out of murdering one of their truck drivers, three donuts and two cups of coffee. The latter two are courtesy of Dunkin Donuts, a truly awesome company that rose to the occasion and *gasp* actually gave me what I wanted when I requested it. And they even gave me an extra squirt of vanilla at BOTH locations, no questions asked.
Unfortunately, this story isn't about how awesome DD is (though this fact is undeniable). That would be too easy.
My loopy fiasco (see what I did there?) with UPS began with their initial attempt to send my package to my apartment. I caught my first whiff of the shitstorm that was brewng when I found one of those nifty info-notice postcards in my mailbox, instead of the box I was expecting. Usually, UPS leaves the package by the mailboxes; the explanation on my postcard was that my address was incomplete on the shipping label, therefore my package was undeliverable and brought back to the "local" shipping center (more on this later).
The first thing I tried to do was pick up my package from the local shipping center. I HopStopped the address on the postcard, and after work the next day went on my merry way to Midwood to pick up my package. I got to Midwood slightly later than expected, but the bigger surprise was still in store. The address on the postcard led me to an antique furniture shop. I asked the guy at the desk where the hell UPS was (since this clearly was not it), and he pointed out a Google map printout I missed on the way in. Because of the format of the address on UPS's postcard, I went to the wrong place; I was supposed to be in Canarsie, a lifetime (ok, like two train rides) away. At that point, it was too late to try to pick it up at the correct location, so I stopped at the local Dunkin Donuts for a tasty treat before heading home.
I wish this was the end, but the agony was just staring to be fully realized.
