Subtitle: The Trip.com Talking Blues

Epigraphs:

Trip.com you are way outta control.

Hey Kelvin suck another towel coach.

One fine day I went into Trip.com settings
To turn off the red thing that was pissing me off
I figured it’d take me about half a second,
But the folks who designed it were outta control
I clicked on the menu, I looked at the screen,
I was calm, I was patient, I was courteous and clean.
Then a question appeared that I’d never foreseen:
Would you like to set your temperature?

Well, I don’t want a temperature, I want these weirdo notifications gone,
I’ve been pushing these buttons since the break of dawn. Which is way bad.

I don’t need a forecast, I don’t need a degree,
I just want Trip.com to quit bothering me.
But the little screen asked me, with his sneaky little charm,
If I’d like to select a temperature alarm.
I said, “No, thank you kindly, I mean no offense,”
But the question came back with no common sense.

It said, “Would you prefer Celsius?” I said, “No.”
“Would you prefer Fahrenheit?” I said, “No.”
It said, “We have another scale you might like to employ.”
I said, “Buddy, I’m a grown man, not a temperature boy.”
It said, “There’s a third option, a scientific delight.”
I said, “I came here to turn off a red light.”
Then it offered me something from the physicists’ shelf:
Kelvin. I said, “What are you smoking? Get a grip.”

Now Kelvin Sampson, the basketball coach he didn’t do a thing,
But his name came to mind like a telephone ring
I thought of this bozo and I started to grin,

Ralph Sampson hit a three. Rockets win.

While Trip.com was asking me to let thermodynamics in.
I was trying to go to bed, I was trying to get free,
Now absolute zero was being offered to me.
I said, “I’ve got enough problems, I’ve got bills to pay.
I don’t quite need Lord Kelvin in my settings today.”

Oh, I know all about Celsius, I know Fahrenheit, too,
And I know that absolute zero is a scientific breakthrough.
I know Lord Kelvin had a reason for the scale that he made,
But I wasn’t in the market for a temperature trade.
I wasn’t booking Antarctica, I wasn’t measuring space,
I was trying to get one red notification the fuck outta my face.
You can put all your units in a beautiful array,
But I came here to say what I came here to say.

Now I’ve got my phone settings, I’ve got apps by the score,
I’ve got permissions and tracking and a hundred things more.
I’ve got background refresh and a microphone switch,
I’ve got Siri and Search making life a little rich.
I’ve got Live Activities and a location decree,
I’ve got every damn company trying to manage me.
But when I ask for one simple thing, here’s the answer I get:
A choice of temperature I never asked for yet.

So I laughed till I cried, and I laughed till I wheezed,
I laughed at the screen and I laughed at the keys.
I was dead, then alive, then deceased once again,
While Trip.com kept on behaving like an administrative hen.
I thought of my house and the money I need,
And the things I must sell and the bills I must feed.
I said, “I’ve got a whole life to get back on track.
I don’t need Kelvin. I want my notifications back.”

So here’s my conclusion, my statement, my vow:
I don’t want your temperature, then or now.
Celsius can leave, Fahrenheit can depart,
Kelvin can take his thermodynamics and make a fresh start.
Trip.com, listen, and listen up well:
I’ve got one little message, and here’s how I’ll tell—
You can ask me a thousand times, but the answer’s still NO.
ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT. Now let me go.

Dedication: Kelvin Sampson you are outta control.