Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Fun with Complaint Letters Part III

Dear Ikea,

Hi there, Ikea. Don't be alarmed by my tone. And don't deny there's something between us. I'm with you, Ikea. I'm not down on any of your friends, either. I'm all for Corporate Personhood. To me, all corporations should be treated like people. We're all equals. I love your beautiful blonde hair and your stunning blue eyes. Your German accent. Your exotic name. Your well-built physical characteristics. You make decent food and you're clean and you're practical and you're frugal and you're fun. You're an angel in blue and gold and I love being inside you.

Ikea, we make an ideal partnership. Ikea, or as I like to call you, Toys "R" Us for grownups. You're open-minded and even encourage couples. You're a playground full of swingsets and we're all your swingers. You'll even watch after our children. Your eye for decor is unmatched. Your taste in music could use work, but nobody's perfect. You definitely know how to make a boy feel at home. Ikea, I can be in your company for hours.

Yet, no letter's ever a good thing. Letters signify an inability to communicate, and with it come notices of dead relatives or loves lost. Back some while ago, I'm afraid you betrayed me. I spent $250 for a piece of you to take home and sleep with. It was this futon that strained our relationship from bliss to hardship and heartache. You see Ikea, my love, my friend. Your sales representative sold me on this bed and on it I slept. But it was no good, you see? It was like a vortex. I tossed and turned and my bottom hurt and hurt, half pained by the bed, the other half by betrayal.

How could you swindle me so? This futon curves into a V-shape in the middle. What the christ kind of design is this? I wasn't exaggerating with "vortex." Every night's sleep feels like I'm being sucked into the abyss. I keep falling to the left like I've got some overweight broad in the center of my bed. Why dear god why does this futon part in half instead of lay flat? Were you trying to mimic the serene images of birds portrayed in paintings? Surely that notion is more poetic than practical.

This bed is consuming me like a black hole. Like tar-colored quicksand dragging me to the land of early morning body aches. Not just physically, but mentally as well. This bed has become my scarlet letter of shame to bear. I can't get rid of it for practical purposes, so instead it'll whittle away at my patience and sanity and physical well-being until one day my body is only ashes, resting in the unnecessary crevice of your oddly designed bed. But it doesn't stop there.

First I will live a life of loneliness. If futon doesn't scream "single" from the tallest mountain already, how the heck am I going to sell a girl on sleeping on my trash compactor-type futon bed? It's like sleeping in Pacman's mouth. I could probably dispose of vegetables with all the grinding going down in the center of this bed. What will be my selling point, "This bed's weird V-shape will ensure we're always snuggling, babe"? So now a simple purchase from Ikea has ensured my DNA will never be allowed to reproduce, just like my grandpa always used to tell me. I'm out of the evolutionary ballgame.

Sleeping eternally in discomfort is my destiny. No way can I find the motivation and money to move this out of my room, not to mention I'm slowly requiring use of a cane. I've made peace with that, enduring solitude and the likelihood my insurance premiums will skyrocket. I will sit with a slant and contemplate all that could've been. If you're feeling charitable I request a donation or a giftcard so perchance I'm ever in the spirits to visit Ikea again I may buy a comfortable chair on which to write out my will and my memoirs. As for now, the future on this futon of pain appears bleak.

Still your number one,
Cust. 4058301948329

Hello, hey. Hi, hello. This is a message note to Jack's frozen pizza. Pardon any typos in this letter. I've got music playing loudly to distract me from listening to my own repulsive thoughts as I write this letter of tempered complaint. Not everyone has a strong enough moral compass to confront one of the great atrocities of the 21st century.

Recently, I'm cutting open a package of your frozen pizza. After cutting the sucker open it literally falls apart like a glacier facing the undeniable enemy of global warming. I photographed it as evidence so you and your concerned friends over at Jack's Pizza Co. know this is no joke. Your leg is not being pulled. Picture link below.

Now what the H-E-double-hockey-stick is that?

I've been through some things in my time. From war to depression. From broken hearts to paying to see the Spiderman remake. From owning a Virtual Boy to my child drowning in a bathtub (the Tamagotchi never recovered from water damage). I'm over 100-years-young by doggy standards and of all the things I've experienced this is the worst. It goes like this.

The world's worst atrocities:

5. The Night of Broken Glass
4. Hiroshima
3. The discontinuation of 3D Doritos
2. Nagasaki
1. The Jack's pizza disaster

Now the lack of sensitivity here is most striking. My mother lives close to the bay in California and I can't help but be appalled by the lack of foresight that would allow such a sacrilegious image. It's obviously meant to portray an earthquake off the Californian coast depicting the creation of California island and foretelling the age-old Arizona Bay prophecy. This bitter premonition delivers a message of doom. This is what my psychic tells me, anyway. Not only are you playing with feelings, you are playing with fate.

This mocking omen on the sacred, doughy canvas of a pizza pie is a dangerous venture. Whoever allowed this pox to travel to a super market, may the good lord have mercy on your soul. As for mine, well, it appears my spirit has since been entwined intimately with sadness. Sadness that follows me like a dark cloud raining tears of deceased optimism upon my person. And as I walk through the rainy streets... automobiles of our uncaring, industrialized world splash the dirty rainwater upon my clothing. And lightening strikes me down with its electric hate into ravines of swampy mud and the water pours at such a rate that tears on my face become camouflaged by rain.

And at the day's end I'm left to swallow every bit of god's neglect and indifference in the form of rainwater but luckily thanks to Jack's frozen pizza I can collect it all inside the huge gaping hole in my soul. The hope-crushing, harrowing sadness is a heartache beyond words, beyond repair, a broken spirit turning black and blue never again to breathe air. Except maybe with the help of various coupons for free Kraft products and services and a tour of the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. Oh, but until then. My heart sings only. Pain. Torment. Pain. Torment. Pain. Torment.

...Pain. Pain.

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