Thing about Charter: They’re the worst fucking company in the whole fucking world.  In less than a month, I have made 2 service calls due to arbitrarily disconnected cables and sent 6 inquiries regarding their billing mistakes.  Not one fucking person has been able to give me a definite fucking answer.  One person even went so far as to insist that the entire City of St. Louis was experiencing an outage.  Charter, that might fly with your reps in Pakistan, but it doesn’t work here.  In fact, how about:

(courtesy of molly lambert)

I also love how every time I call them about the shit they’re fucking up again, someone tries to sell me cable and phone service.  Charter, the only reason I’m paying you for Internet is because I have no other options.  AT&T says I live too many feet away from their service thingy and ghetto stuff like Cricket and Clear is slow like 1997.  Just about the only other service I would ever ask Charter to provide is home protection, and that’s only if I secretly wanted someone to burn it down so I could collect the insurance money.  “Guard it with your life, Charter, this is my home” means “burn this motherfucker down!” in their corporate parlance.  I’m sure of it.  It’s in a book somewhere.

Because I don’t trust Charter to charge me for cable, I’m still going to Ian and Shannon’s on Sundays to watch The Walking Dead (what did you guys think of this Sunday, was it too light on the zombies, or due time for more human interaction?).  Anyway, I finally figured out where I know Andrew Lincoln from The Walking Dead.

He was in goddamn Love, Actually.  I know he was in Love, Actually because I saw it.  Full disclosure: I own it.  My grandma, the one who responds to every single gift you give her with “what am I supposed to do with this?,” got it for me one year.  She can complain all she wants that I never call her, I just don’t feel like hearing the complaints of a woman who thinks I would be the grateful recipient of Love, Actually.

The thing about Love, Actually is that it’s actually not a terrible movie.  For starters, Alan Rickman is in it.  I will watch almost anything starring Alan Rickman because Alan Rickman is the shit.  In Love, Actually, he’s a boring, inconsiderate, probable philanderer who wears nubby sweaters and complains about Joni Mitchell.  I like him anyway, though, because like I said, he is Alan Fucking Rickman.

Second, Bill Nighy is in it.  I will watch almost anything with Alan Rickman and Bill Nighy in it, and in Love, Actually, Bill Nighy is a filthy dirty singer who curses and gives crooked middle fingers all the time.  Clearly, he is my spirit animal.

Third, Love, Actually is British.  While I’m aware that Things That Are British are not automatically smarter or more sophisticated than Things That Are American, they still seem that way, especially when nearly everyone in Love, Actually has a proper-sounding southern England accent instead of the shrill, screechy northern England one.  Even the people in Love, Actually who are supposed to have wonky accents (this makes them scrappy and loveable, I guess, even though England doesn’t usually associate anyone in the lower class with loveable) still sound posh.  Lookit me, using fancy foreign words!

Fourth, yes, it’s a totally ridiculous mega-romantic comedy and there’s a jingly little Christmas theme throughout, but it’s still kind of funny, and it’s mega status allows it to move within a range of characters rather than focus on the super smart, ball-busting career woman who just needs the right man to reveal her softer side (America, I am talking to you).  This removes the pandering-to-sexless-women theme so common in romantic comedies and turns Love, Actually into a movie that a person like me can watch without wanting to stab herself in the privates.  Or ovulate on command, which seems to be the goal of the newest glut of romantic comedies (watch Katherine Heigel and that guy who married Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas be forced into adopting a baby because nothing creates a sexy mood like infant diarrhea!).

So it’s not the worst movie ever, at least not considering its competition.  My grandmother still had no business buying it for me, just like she has no business critiquing my gifts to her when she’s clearly unwilling to walk past the discount bin.  I know what she’s getting for Christmas now.  The Walking Dead on DVD.  That’ll show her.

UPDATE: Using some partially outdated contact information I found on Consumerist, I sent a long and pissy e-mail to about 15 Charter directors at about 4pm.  Less than 20 minutes ago, I received a call from Stephanie with Charter, who wanted to talk about my e-mail and find people to address it for real.  Which was appreciated.  And unexpected.  How dare I.