A Bissell Bites the Dust, I Die a Little Inside

I believe I am a pretty reasonable person. Above all else, I try to resolve all conflicts without overt anger or shouting, conduct myself in a calm and professional manner. At times I have even been called “patient”. I believe that peace will solve more problems than violence, that self control will get you far in life.

That is why the fact that I want to throw a flaming bag of dog shit through the window of the Bissell headquarters should really say something about the quality level of Bissell “products”.

It began a year ago when Cale and I received the Bissell Powersteam Pro as a gift. It worked well enough for the first three months, helping remove the scars of drunken parties and muddy bike rides.

Bissell Stock Photo*
*Mustache added for visual enhancement

Slowly over time the machine developed a chronic disease known as “madewithcheapplasticcrapitis” (not to be confused with the gum disease known as Gingivitis. I mean come on, it doesn’t even have gums you unobservant bastard*). Its side effects were quite crippling. For example, the knobs, instead of turning, would break. Additionally, instead of working correctly, it would fall apart.
*Gums in stock photo added for dramatic effect.

We babied the machine, nursing it like it was our child, stroking its furniture attachment and giving it plenty of clean water. One day I had worked up the nerve to use the machine, and I plugged it in, hands shaking wildly. As I began to use it, my hope began to grow. Oh my God, I thought, maybe this machine isn’t the devil reincarnated after all! The Bissell was working!

I had finished the small entry way in our place and looked confidently at the bedroom. It was going to make it, I told myself, hands proudly on my hips. And then it happened. To my horror, the cleaner suddenly spit out its cleaning brush like a sick dog regurgitating a side of week-old Canadian beef. I slapped my hands to my face and screamed in terror. WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?? I cried to the sputtering beast. The pump seized up and screeched to a halt, steam rising from its carcass. As a final act of rejection, the attachment tool quietly fell off the back. I stared in stunned silence.

After relaying the nightmarish occurrence to my grandparents, they confirmed the story, noting that their exact same model machine had similar epileptic episodes as well. They offered their machine in order to use the parts to create a sort of Frankenstein-like hybrid of the two. I called upon the expertise of my husband, and he laid the machine on his workbench with the precision of a surgeon and the grace of a dancer. His eyes were squinted, hands flying wildly; I…I don’t believe it, he stuttered after spilling the machine’s entrails onto the floor. Its….its completely cracked inside. All of the screws are stripped! Is….is this made with superglue?!? He asked, wide-eyed and stunned. Not much was clear to us other than one thing: Bissell had clearly outsourced its manufacturing to seizure-prone apes. Or perhaps Mexico.

Sample Bissell Employee

After the machine was apart, the bike room resembled the fields of Hiroshima. We stared, quietly frightened, at the aftermath as he caught his breath. Finally, the hybrid was complete, resembling the scar-laden and poorly reconstructed face of a Hollywood madam. Cautiously, he began testing parts of it. First the pump started to work, then motor began to turn. After a quick peek to its undercarriage we found the brush was spinning: the transplants had been a success! We held each other close, tears of joy streaming down our face, blurring the celebratory moment.

Delirious with joy, I whisked the machine to the living room, cleaning vigorously, eyes blazing. I had nearly completed the living room when I looked closely to admire my work, my notable achievements. It was only then that we made a horrible and final discovery. I had cleaned the entire rug with only cleaning solution. The water had gotten clogged, filling the inside of the machine. Piles of soap glinted at me from the floor, like tiny bubbles of death.

Sometimes, without any reason, you suddenly realize it’s the end. You struggle for so long, waiting for your loved one to pull through, waiting for them to fight the white light. But after a period of time, it becomes futile to fight the inevitable.

The inevitable…..that Bissell is nothing more than a sweatshop……of horrors. And we may never be the same again.

[callie].