My email to myki
The new model would introduce smartcards to Victoria for the first time and, according to those in the know, avert the problems that would come from the impending obsolescence of the previous system.
A zillion dollars and six eons later, myki was finally introduced.
Not one single element of it was inherently better than the Metcard system. It was slower in every regard, not remotely intuitive, riddled with bugs, accompanied by a public information campaign involving gross condescension, and abysmally impractical for visitors to the state.
Smart? It was as dumb as buggery – a veritable imbecile in the pantheon of ticketing systems.
And still is. Very little has changed since its first drunken, wayward, confusing steps. It would look hopelessly out of place in the early 2000s and is hilariously inadequate in the hyper-digital world of 2013.
Since the 29th of December 2012 it has been the
single principal ticketing system across Victoria (alongside V-Line tickets) and has proved an utter shambles of a “solution” (as the corporate wankers say these days).
I wrote an email to myki and tried to send it via their feedback form, but it only allowed for a 1000 characters. Of course it did. I’m surprised they didn’t charge me for the attempt. In the end I just sent them a link to this page:
I don’t know whether you’re familiar with my shtick. I write emails to companies and moderately famous people who I find repugnant or worthy of my ridicule for one reason or another, but instead of berating them directly, I hoist up a flimsy pretence of support and agreement with their shameful views/philosophy/treatment of customers.
In this case, however, I can’t bring myself to even pretend to defend you.
myki, you are not a faecal stain on the fabric of society, not hydrochloric acid in the face of civility, not even a figurative cancer metastasising throughout the Victorian community. You are something so much worse.
You are worse than septicaemia.
Worse than a spew that doesn’t make you feel any better.
Worse than the music of Nickelback.
You are worse than being woken by a strange, unnameable feeling, then seeing a man you’ve never seen before staring unblinkingly at you through your bedroom window.
Worse than the National Rifle Association.
Worse than Smith’s Chips ads during the period when Alan Jones played the Gobbledok.
Worse than a needlestick injury.
To the eye.
Worse than camping.
Worse than Two and a Half Men (but admittedly funnier).
Worse than Coles and KFC ads. (And if Coles and KFC ads had disgusting, lowest common denominator bogan sex and produced a child, that child would still be more likeable, more charming, more sophisticated and an all round better “product” than you. And despite being a TV commercial, that child, if incomprehensibly given the chance to prove themselves in the role, would turn out to be a better public transport ticketing system than you.)
You are worse than the part in Storm Boy when hunters shoot Mr Percival (and you probably enjoyed that part and stood and cheered in the cinema and blew a vuvuzela and raised one of those giant foam fingers that you see at American sporting matches, you sick fuck).
If you crossed paths with Kyle Sandilands in the street, you would embrace him warmly (with your spindly little plastic arms) and ask breathlessly whether he’d abused any women recently. (And when he said he had, you’d high five him exuberantly and say something suitably moronic, probably “Woo!” or “El-oh-el”.)
If you were the Emperor in the famous Hans Christian Anderson story (and you are), you wouldn’t just walk around amongst the townsfolk naked, you’d also have a full (medically-induced) erection and probably some toilet paper hanging out of your arse.
If you were a building material it would be asbestos.
If you were a foodstuff it would be margarine.
If you were an unpleasant surprise it would be a used condom inside your fridge.
If you were a footballer, you’d be Tom Scully. (That’s a low blow, I know but, geeze, you’re owed a couple, I reckon, you sanctimonious, responsibility-shirking, luminously shithouse cock-hinge.)
Science is closer to understanding what existed before the Big Bang than it is to understanding how or why the fuck you came into being.
You are less effective than homeopathy.
You are less reliable than Tiger Airways, than Goldman Sachs, than News Limited. (You are only marginally more reliable than Metro Trains.)
You are less practical than escher stairways.
You have less dedication to those you purportedly serve than Pope Benedict XVI.
You are one of the most unimpressive things ever invented, well ahead of holographic wrist bands and Intelligent Design Theory.
You’re an embarrassment to the city of Melbourne and disgrace to those who created you and advocate your continued use.
I hate you so very much.
Obviously, I don’t provide many answers in that catalogue of pure loathing, but if you do want to read more about what can be done to improve myki, I recommend Daniel Bowen’s website. The Myki User is also a good resource.
…or choose one that takes your fancy from the list below:
My email to Yarra Trams
My email to Metro Trains
My email to Facebook
My email to Microsoft
My email to Coles
My (unsent) email to the Victorian Department of Transport
My email to Alan Jones
My email to Kyle Sandilands
My email to Gasp Jeans
My email to Jim Beam
My email to Ben Polis
My email to Hoo haa Bar
My email to Weis ice creams
My email to some tobacco companies
My email to Margaret Court
My email to KFC
Grape Men Quote of the Day
Grape Man 1: “Eh, I hear good thing yesterday, when I go on trains.
Grape Man 2: “Yeah. What is it?”
Grape Man 1: “You know how we no fuck like some people. Like… that fat mans with beard who park in drive. And every fuck person on Channel 9?”
Grape Man 2: “Yeah.”
Grape Man 1: “When we see them around, we saying to them ‘You go and eat a bags of dick, you many fuck.”
Grape Man 2: “That sounds like a fucking shit idea, you putano.”
Grape Man 1: “Ah, you go and eat some bags of dicks with some Worcestershire sauces, you dick bags.”