The Sprint Store ranks right up there with the DMV or the dentist's office on my list of enjoyable places to be, and today reinforced this with flying colors. It was Dirty Forehead Day, ahem, pardon me - Ash Wednesday. I went to the Sprint retail store in hopes (however frail and misguided) that I could just buy a new phone and be on my way. "Are you a Sprint customer?"

I knew I was fucked. "Yes."

"Oh, then your patronage will be rewarded by standing in the customer service line in the office next door for the next hour and a half. We have six employees in this office just kind of rocking back and forth on their heels, and we wouldn't want to interrupt that, so you need to talk to the people next door."

I headed to the customer service office with all the glee of a condemned man. It was exactly as I expected it, or sadly, the way I remembered it from previous painful visits. The threadbare, institutional gloom of the Post Office has nothing on this place. It's like a goddamn refugee camp. It's dirty, everything electric has an Out of Order sign on it, and it's packed with irritated people, all burning the last few matchsticks of their patience. At least, it's packed on the customer side of the counter. On the service side, like the Post Office, it's populated by about a half dozen people; enough to occupy about a third of the stations at the counter. Half of them look bored and are wandering around, taking a break as they wait for their break, telling each other jokes and playing with their own cell phones, paying no mind to the long, long line of people who can see them fucking off while their day gets sapped away standing in line. Everyone in the line has no choice but to stand there, and the Sprint fuckheads know it, which they prove by nonchalantly helping customers at whatever snail's pace they feel like. I'm in line behind about ten people and there are two people actually working the counter. Each person is going to take at least ten minutes, and that doesn't even factor in the customer service people wandering off for a few minutes between each customer to talk on their phones or disappear into the back to hide or bullshit with their buddies.

I'm behind this ghetto chick who is shuffling back and forth anxiously. It's 33 degrees outside and she's wearing these hooker jeans with a three inch gap from the ankle to the hip held together with shoelaces, so bare skin is visible all the way down. No panties. Tres classy. When she finally got to the counter, the first thing the totally professional guy said was, "Aren't you cold?" Ahh, but I'm getting ahead of myself. We still have an hour of suffering left before we actually get to the counter. I was coping with the wait by slipping deep into the cold, calm emptiness of my New Yorker misanthrope trance, and I actually didn't notice her until I heard the loud, distorted muzack blaring from the speaker on her cell phone, which she had switched to speaker phone mode.

"Sorry, but I ain't listenin' to that shit alone. Shit be all loud in my motherfuckin' ear," she spouted loud enough that everyone in the line could hear. The robot voice would occasionally chime in to tell us all that her call was important to them and that it would be answered in the order in which it was received. Living in New York has taught me a lot about the ghetto psyche. The prime directive is drawing attention, whether positive or negative, twenty four hours a day. To her, me asking her to turn off her obnoxious speaker phone would have been a welcome invitation to argue. Arguing equals attention-getting and entertainment, not to mention an opportunity to prove she's "hard," which, conveniently, is the secondary ghetto directive. I decided to do the thing that ghetto trolls find more irritating than anything else: I coolly pretended that she wasn't even there and that the noise wasn't bothering me at all. I chose not to 'recca-nize.' After a few seconds, she tried again to draw fire by directing her attention to me specifically. "Sorry if this is botherin' you. I can't stand that shit in my ear, yo." Does anyone hear anything? I know I don't. My emotionless face stared straight ahead as though she didn't exist. I heard a dejected sigh, and suddenly the muzack was silent. HOLY SHIT! IT WORKED!

A few feet away was a row of phones that connected directly to Sprint customer service. Of the eight phones, one was working; a fact that I found particularly amusing considering that this was a phone company. The guy using this phone must have just learned the expression "at this time" and thought it made him sound really urbane and professional, because he used it in every sentence. "Well I see what you're saying, but that solution doesn't work for me at this time. I cannot make a payment at this time, and I guess that I'm just asking for a bit of leighway at this time. I'm expecting some important phone calls at this time, and I wanted to see if there's any way my service could be turned back on at this time." Yeah, you sound like a sophisticated master of industry when the person on the other end already knows that you're getting your phone cut off because you're too stupid to pay your damn bill, dumbass.

So I'm standing behind this chick, and approximately every fourteen seconds her phone rings. That's a lot of chatter considering it's all small talk of the very smallest variety, and nothing comes out of this girl's mouth that isn't absurd vernacular. It must take a lot of energy to keep that practiced ghetto image up all day every day, but it was obvious that she was trying really hard.

Finally the girl gets to the counter. She had obviously psyched herself up for this, because she went straight into Jerry Springer attack mode. At this point I was relieved I didn't engage the speaker phone argument, as I would have had to listen to her retarded, aggressive yammering for over an hour. I'll give a brief primer on ghetto arguing technique for the uninitiated:

Rule 1. You're always right even if it's laughably obvious that you're not. If onlookers laugh or interject, then they're "meddlin'" and will be attacked next. Winning a ghetto argument has little if anything to do with being right. It's all about getting what you want in the end, whether it's money back from the manicurist for the acrylic nail YOU broke, a freebie at McDonalds for making you wait fifteen seconds more than you deem reasonable, taking up three subway seats with shopping bags or continuing to play Nelly so loudly that people a block away can't hear their own TV's..

Rule 2. The winner of the argument is not the one who debates more logically and makes more valid points, it's the one who makes a public spectacle so obnoxious and loud that the other contender concedes to avoid the embarrassment of even being involved in contributing to such an annoying display. The ghetto arguer achieves this by screaming obscenities, name calling that's completely tangential to the topic of the argument, constantly interrupting and repeating the same illogical argument over and over using the exact same wording each time until the other arguer is too exacerbated to continue. Example: "Why you park there? Public street? PSSHT! Why you park there? Why you park there? Faggot, why you park there? Yeah, but why you gotta park there, mothafucka? Car's probably stolen anyways, 'cause ain't no faggot like you can afford no car. Why there? Why there? Yo, I ain't hearin' that public street bullshit. Why you park there? Why you park there?" (Guy drives away.) "That's what I thought, faggot!" The ghetto arguer then mumbles the same arguments out loud to herself for the next ten minutes to uncoil and make sure that everyone nearby knows that she just "won" the argument. This earns her "hard" points. "Mess with ME mumble mumble fucker thinks he gonna mumble mumble don't know who he dealin' with mumble mumble think he gonna park his car here mumble mumble faggot mumble mumble Like, how he gonna act like mumble mumble....".

Rule 3: There should be a constant assertion that you're an extremely important person. Regardless of the fact that your greatest accomplishment is holding a job as a fry cook for the last two months, your wants are of utmost importance, overshadowing the needs of anyone else, even if the only way to make you happy is by breaking set-in-stone policies. Fuck every single one of Sprint's other millions of customers who are bound by their contracts to follow certain policies. They should know that YOU, yes, you who doesn't even pay her bill, are more important than them all and are exempt from their rules, despite signing a contract that says otherwise. Who cares if you're a parolee from the South Bronx who lives in her mom's section 8 apartment at age 25, you should see no irony in smacking your chest while shouting, "Yo, how you gonna say that to ME?!" Don't they know who they're talking to? I mean, sure, you've been working at Burger King for two months and the manager still can't quite remember your name. People need to realize who they're dealing with. Talking shit to you is like someone busting into City Hall and yelling at the Mayor.

So now that we've had a primer on ghetto arguing technique and principles, let's observe it in practice. As soon as the guy at the desk asked how he could be of assistance, the ghetto chick, psyched for combat with her no-panties in a bunch, lunged at him with,"SOME MOTHAFUCKA DONE STOLED MYYY PHONE!" (Apparently the phone she was using all this time was a friend's. "My" is heavily accented. "Myyy phone. ME! You know, the Queen of Sheba. Yo, it's all 'bout ME.") Just as the guy's mouth cracks open to help, he is instantly cut off. "AND YOU NEED TO GET IT BACK 'CAUSE IT'S A CAMERA PHONE AND I GOT NAKED PICTURES OF ME ON IT AND I JUST KNOW SOME ASSHOLE PERVERT IS JACKIN' OFF AND PUTTIN' DAT SHIT ON THE INTERNET AND SHIT!" This is the point that I felt the worst for the guy at the counter. He was the only person within the fifty foot audible radius that had to not laugh. Many other people, however, myself included, were laughing quite boisterously (Remember what I said about "meddlin')." Her neck swiveled around and she gave everyone in line the stink-eye. A note should be made here to the practitioners of the icy stare. It only really works when the look in your eyes gleams of "cold and calculated" more than "vacant and dopey." The fact that you're pissed isn't enough to properly energize the icy stare if you just look mad and dumb.

So here we have compounded Level O stupidity. She (a.) took naked pictures of herself on (b.) a portable device that could be easily lost or stolen, which is (c.) capable of instantly transmitting these pictures to anyone, (d.) through an electronic medium which means an unlimited number of copies can be made and distributed to everyone on the planet, and her inflated sense of self-importance makes her believe that (e.) the whole world lusts for her skank ass. She also believes that (f.) Sprint is somehow responsible for this scenario, (g.) should care, (h.) can do something to get the phone back, (i.) is obligated to do so, and (j.) taking an aggressive tone with the guy at the counter is the best way to get results. She then (k.) yells this embarrassing scenario out (l.) in a crowded public space, (m.) thinking that people won't think she's a moron, (n.) won't laugh, and (o.) will care that she's pissed when they do. What letter does she have to reach before someone puts this poor dumb animal out of her misery? But wait, it gets worse.

She had apparently already called customer service a few days earlier and they were mailing her a new phone. They said it would be there in a week. A ghetto chick deprived of her cell phone.. for a WHOLE WEEK? GASP! That's like having her arms amputated. She demands that they give her a loaner phone until the new phone arrives - RIGHT NOW... for FREE. The guy at the counter said they didn't do that, to which she instantly said she refused to pay her bill. This segued into an easy change of topic, and probably the real reason she decided to make her phone go M.I.A. "YO, WHAT'S UP WITH MY BILL? IT'S MAD BIG! THERE AIN'T NO FUCKIN' WAY I'M PAYIN' THAT SHIT!"

As the guy checked the computer, a look of amazement formed on his face. "You've got a week to go on this month's billing cycle and you've made twelve hundred sixty two calls... and that's only outgoing calls, and you've used over 4000 minutes not including your free nights and weekends."

A smile crossed her face that she tried to hide. She knew he was right. She got a grip on it and went back into battle mode. "AIN'T NO MOTHERFUCKIN' WAY I MADE THAT MANY CALLS. I WANNA SEE A PRINTOUT." When informed that the printout would be forty eight pages long, she stuck to her guns. "I DON'T GIVE A FUCK. PRINT THAT SHIT OUT!" There was a collective sigh from everyone waiting in line. Up to this point, she's had also received, and TAKEN three phone calls while she'd been standing at the counter, holding up the line even more while she chattered with her friends. I was not the only one who was livid at this point, as was apparent on the faces of the people in line. Then I heard a sound that made me even angrier: the whirr-click sound of one of those old computer printers with the pronged rollers that use that paper with the holes on both sides. This forty eight page report was going to take for-fucking-ever to print.

Finally, I made it to the counter. I'm at the station next to where the ghetto girl is putting on her little show. The girl helping me had a look on her face that conveyed fear and reluctance, as though she was afraid to even know what I wanted after seeing what was going on at the station next to hers, and she was keeping the ghetto screamer in the corner of her eye. "Yeah, I just wanted to buy a phone and have my service switched over to it." A big, relieved smile instantly formed on her face. "Yeah! An actual transaction! Cool, huh!" She laughed, and agreed as much as she could have without drawing the ghetto chick's attention (full verbal agreement would be 'meddlin'').

The phone records are still printing and the ghetto chick is wrapping up a phone conversation with the standard issue 'holla atcha.' She then begins chanting, "I want another phone! I want another phone! I want another phone!" while smacking her hand on the counter in rhythm, debating skills on loan from the Rikki Lake show. This is what happens when the intellectual peak of someone's day is watching a TV studio audience chanting, "Dump him! Dump him!"

So far, her aggressive stance has been fruitless, and she knows it. It's time to switch gears. Even though she's spent the past ten minutes cursing at this poor guy, the whore then has the audacity to begin overtly flirting with him. "What's your name? What time do you get off?" I shit you not. "What time do you get off" was the SECOND QUESTION. Even suggesting the inkling of a possibility of letting someone bone you to pay off your phone bill is about as slutty as you can get, but the guy's not biting. Instead he gets up and walks over to the printer to pick up a stack of paper thick and heavy enough that it should only be a phone bill for a business with multiple phone lines. It lands on the counter in front of her with a thud. She thumbs through the top three or four pages with a smirk on her face. She knows it's an accurate record of the calls she's made, and that there was really no real value this stack of paper could bring to the argument in her favor. Printing it all out just bought her some time to consider what angle she'll play next. No doubt she had hoped that making him print it all out would make the guy say that it was too much trouble, to not worry about it, then, with a few keystrokes, he would magically erase all her calls from the computer and she would be on her way, free to rack up a thousand more phone calls in the last week of her billing cycle. Instead, it sat there in front of her like a big neon sign telling her to give up her lame argument. Now that this voluminous tome of phone records sat before her, it was apparent that her plan was backfiring, and she was visibly scheming her next move. But what angle remained unplayed?

I stood at the counter as the customer service girl fumbled with my new phone trying to figure out how to turn it on. The ghetto girl looked up at me and smirked. I smirked back. "Talkative?"

"Yo, can you believe they expect me to pay for this shit?" she said as she slapped the stack of papers in front of her.

"That's kind of how it works, right? You use your phone, you pay your bill."

The guy behind the counter was smirking now too. She glanced over and saw the look on his face. Like a snake backed into a corner, she decided to unleash her finishing move, regardless of how absurd it was. She put Guns of Navarone energy behind it. What's scary to me is that people not only think of shit this inane and nonsensical, but they have little enough fear of embarrassing themselves that they stick behind it and give it their all. Logic Train! Everybody off! Next stop: Hyperinflated Sense of Entitlement! "YO, I AIN'T PAYIN' THAT SHIT! THAT'S FUCKIN' CRAZY! HOW THEY GONNA TELL MEEE (you know, ME) THAT I GOTTA PAY THEM?! FUCK, MAN! THEY OUGHT TO BE PAYING ME FOR BEING SUCH A GOOD CUSTOMER! I OUGHTA SUE YOU MOTHAFUCKAS FOR EVEN TRYIN' TO PLAY ME LIKE THAT!" She looked around frantically for a reaction. Everyone within earshot was either laughing or on the verge of laughter. "WELL FUCK ALL Y'ALL!" With that, she pushed the stack of papers off the counter onto the floor behind the desk and stormed out the door, initiating her ghetto post-argument recoil mumbling and speed dialing someone to tell them about what kind of fuckheads work at Sprint, no doubt to profound agreement from the other party about how she was wronged.

Right about then, after pushing every button on my new phone many times, the girl that was helping me finally noticed a large red and white sticker that covered two thirds of the front of the phone that said it would not turn on until it had been charged.