We got a blog for non-techies,” Hickey tells me. “Yooooou should totally write about your experience with Clearwire.”
I don’t want to write about my experience with Clearwire for the same reason Marsellus Wallace probably doesn’t want to write about getting butt-reamed by a hillbilly while a red rubber ball was strapped to his mouth.
That is to say, it’s personally embarrassing and just makes me angry. I feel violated. My family feels violated. Almost nothing good came out of this experience except for a free mouse — which of course was useless because I have a laptop. Clearwire turned me into an ogre. I need to drink malt liquor just to dull the ache. I have never been so filled with hate towards a faceless entity as I have as a customer of Clearwire Internet.
“Perfect!” Hickey says. “That’ll make a way-cool cautionary tale! It’d be like Upton Sinclair, except with better jokes and no salmonella! I’ll spring for the first 40 of St. Ides; just start typing, my little muckraker!”