Letter to an eBay customer

Jo and I have been selling on ebay for 8 or so years, over 5000 transactions and over $100,000 sales means we’ve had a lot of ridiculous inquiries from the buying public.  One of my least favorite are the people who tell you that your prices are too high.  One particular goofball sent a rather sharply worded inquiry that suggested that we were “price gouging” and “crazy” to ask such high prices.  Clearly these people don’t “get” ebay.  And while eBay has a policy of trying to ensure that all communication between buyers and sellers is positive and helpful in tone, sometimes you just get fed up.  Here was my response:

Greetings and thank you for your kind inquiry.

Please be advised that we periodically review our pricing structure with an eye to maximizing sales, taking in to consideration global consumer trends and certain key market indices which we extrapolate from eBay’s extensive live market data. 

To further ensure that our pricing is consistent with the fluctuating conditions of our particular e-tail environment we often take well-reasoned and intelligent suggestions from potential consumers.  Unfortunately, your suggestion was neither and accordingly shall be discarded.

In an effort to better connect with our potential consumers we are always willing to take some time to explain the basics of e-tail economics or “shopping” for those who have difficulty understanding the concept. 

A seller, (that’s us) purchases an item (trades money for goods) and then resells said item to another consumer (that’s you.) 

We determine how much to charge based on several factors (reasons): 

What these items normally go for on eBay

How many of these items are available

How much we have sold them for in the past

I am sorry we were unable to meet your needs and suggest that you should continue shopping at your local “bricks and mortar” (that means a real store in a building, like Walmart) until you are comfortable with the concepts of purchasing items on line. (Through a computer.)

Thanks and best regards,

Glenn

Sorting through the mail today I caught sight of this post card addressed to my wife.

Hmmm, a dog is hiding behind a toilet while a cat holding balloons seems to be offering me some sort of discount on his services.

“Time flies – this month is your anniversary as a customer of DS plumbing”

Really?  My god, how could we have forgotten!  Does this make it our porcelain anniversary?

“Honey!  Bake a cake it’s our toilet’s anniversary today!”

Exactly one year ago our malevolent toddler quietly stuffed 15 hotel size shampoo bottles in to our toilet and flushed.  No amount of plunging or snaking the drain would help so, in defeat , we called a plumber.  Three hours and several hundred dollars later we bid adieu to the loose-belted gentleman and dearly hoped we’d forget this whole episode.

Which we did, until today, when this taunting reminder came by mail.

But maybe this isn’t about us, maybe it’s about the poor toilet who suffers in relative silence year in and year out.  Maybe this is a congratulations on being free of clogs for one year. 

I’m picturing a church basement somewhere where old plumbing fixtures sit in a circle; “Hi, my name is toilet and I’m a plugger.  I’ve been clog free for one year now and thanks to everyone here, and my sponsor DS plumbing, well, I’d just like to say, I couldn’t have done it without you all.”  Much hugging and tears ensue…

So I think I’ll write a letter back to DS Plumbing, on behalf of our toilet to thank them and later today, when seated upon said throne, I’ll think back to that glorious day when an evil toddler conspired to bring DS plumbing in to our lives.

Letter Of Complaint to the Toronto Sun

Dear Sirs,

I am writing to you today to protest the recent devaluation of my property that resulted from one of your "newspapers" finding its way to my porch.  When I first noticed the garish colors, infantile fonts and poorly alliterated headline I mistook it for a publication from my daughter's kindergarten class.  Fortunately, before chastising her for such a sub-par effort I looked closer and discovered that by some terrible mistake a copy of the Toronto Sun had found its way to my doorstep.  To my good fortune, it was a Tuesday and therefore the collection of ink and cheap paper you call a daily did not spend more than a few hours despoiling my recycling box.

Imagine my shock when, the following morning, I noticed yet another copy lying proudly on my doormat!  Donning a pair of rubber gloves I once again escorted the fetid collection of lies, innuendo and badly taken photographs to the recycling box.  To prevent recurrence of this unfortunate happenstance I made the decision, (I would later come to regret) to telephone your circulation department to request that I no longer be blessed with the delivery of your moronic broadsheet.

Now I must admit I expected a certain amount of incompetence that would obviously be resident at the place that gave us such illuminating headlines as "Pilot Just Plane Lucky" and "Police Pluck Stuck Ducks.”  However, I was completely taken aback by the obvious devotion of your employees to art and mystery of utter idiocy.   They have elevated the basic condition of incompetence to such a dizzying height of nicompoopery that I fear they could be outwitted by plankton.

Please let me summarize my futile attempt to contact your company by telephone.  First, the phone simply rang until I could no longer listen to its incessant bleating.  I pictured several of your employees standing in a circle agog at the now ringing device scratching themselves while figuring out the best way to make it stop.  My second call also was not answered so I assumed that it was either nap time or some frightened drone had smashed the offending device with his club.  Refusing to believe that no one at your company could operate a telephone, I called one more time.  Unfortunately my call was answered.

Now I have endured my share of mindless platitudes from irritating over-eager customer service people but once again your employees haven taken it upon themselves to not only push the envelope but to exceed it in every way.  Here’s a basic customer service tip: if you sound like a cross between Richard Simmons and Alvin the Chipmunk no one will take you seriously! 

I informed the young lady of my displeasure at having apparently been added to your list of subscribers and simply requested that I no longer receive it.  Her reply: "Oh, I see, so you want to cancel your subscription?  Can I ask why?"

Why?

Why?!

At this juncture it would be prudent to tell you that I am a very patient man.  Having raised a number of recalcitrant pets over the years I have had a great deal of experience communicating to and training animals that have only rudimentary intelligence.  Thus I attempted to inform the customer service person as slowly and clearly as possible that at no time did I ever subscribe to the SUN nor would I ever, ever, ever, ever, ever be inclined to do so.  I asked her once again as politely and slowly as possible to please make sure that no one delivers a Toronto Sun newspaper to my house in Toronto. 

To this she responded as follows, "Wow, okay, so, I can't even find your name in our database here, I don't think you’re actually a subscriber you know?"

Reiterating my previous statement in simpler terms I pleaded with her to please ask whoever the unfortunate delivery person was to NOT DELIVER A PAPER TO MY ADDRESS.

She replied:

"Okay okay, I'll put in a call.  Jeez whadda you have against the SUN anyways?

If she was only a fraction as helpful as she was overly cheerful I am sure that I would have come away from the whole experience reasonably certain that I would not ever see a Toronto Sun at my door again.  Unfortunately, the customer service agent I spoke with was either merrily huffing from a bag full of airplane glue or had managed against all odds and the basic principles of human kinetics to introduce her air-filled cerebellum to her colon.

At this point that I decided I could no longer imperil my health by risking stroke over my frustration at the nitwit who was attempting to somehow engage me in a battle of wits.  I simply hung up the phone and decided to put my response on paper.  It is as follows:

That you even have a list of subscribers is testament to the thickness and resilience of the lower end of the gene pool.  That you bother staffing a telephone line with the equivalent of an idiotic chatty-Cathy doll is ridiculous.  That you refer to your publication as a newspaper is abhorrent.  That you can even spell newspaper is a shock from which I must sit down to absorb. 

To that end, please either immediately cease to send or send enough papers so that during my next bout of diarrhea I will be able to significantly improve the quality of the pure excrement that you managed to squeeze out on to the pages of your tabloid.

Please note I had this entire letter translated in to words you might be able to understand: 

YOU NO SEND PAPER

IF YOU SEND PAPER, ME GET MAD

MAKE PAPER STOP COME TO 317 HILLCREST AVENUE!

Sincerely,

Glenn A. Rigby

10 Cent Donaldson and the Dangers of Fitting In.

The world of a 9 year old boy can be a savage one; trying desperately to not stand out and viciously turning on anyone who dared to be different. Conformity was the warm embrace we all sought and the best possible way to fit in to your peer group.

Lloyd Donaldson was one of those kids who invariably did not.  Tall but not handsome, slim but not athletic, Lloyd Donaldson would do just about anything to fit-in.  You see, Lloyd’s common sense was simply no match for peer pressure which is why he was always fun to have around whenever there was nothing to do but something too dangerous or too stupid which none of us would attempt.  Therefore, if a freezing pole needed to be licked, a dead squirrel needed to be touched or the bra strap of an Amazonian 8^th grader needed to be snapped back it was always good to have a Lloyd Donaldson with you. 

One would think that after having urinated on a cow fence, twice, he’d have figured out that listening to his classmates was something less than healthy.  Ahh but the laughter of your school mates, even if it was directed at you was like an addictive drug that he just couldn’t get enough of.  So when Adam Clayton dared him to see if he could stick a quarter up his nose you just KNEW he was going to do it.  I don’t know if you’ve looked at a 9 year old’s nose lately but  the idea that a quarter could somehow fit in there seems entirely unlikely, unless you yourself are a 9 year old boy whose index finger is at often very at home in said cavity.  Unsurprisingly he gamely picked up the proffered coin and started it on it’s journey up his nose.

Oh how he tried.

But no combination of angles of approach or contortions of his face could get that quarter rammed home.  With growing desperation he looked around at the disappointed faces of his classmates and in a moment of pure genius he said: "I’m trying a dime first.”  It seems foreboding that our dime features the image of a ship even more so that that particular ship is called the BlueNOSE but, I digress.

Pinched between his fingers the dime slid easily into the vast, over-harvested channel. With a goofy grin on his face, he turned the dime 90 degrees flaring out his nostril and disfiguring an altogether unremarkable face in to something that a group 9 year old boys could appreciate; he looked monstrous!  After a few minutes of giggling, looking supremely proud of himself it was time to extract the dime and move on to the next inanity. 

I think I mentioned before that Lloyd Donaldson was not the most coordinated fellow, which explained his insistence on Velcro shoes, his inability to play most sports and his complete inability to extract a dime from his nostril.  Not only could he not get it out, as he grew increasingly uncomfortable, his trembling fingers managed to push it ever deeper towards the dark recesses of his nose.  The further it went, the more upset he got until he finally said “guys, somebody, help me pull it out!”  Sadly, the looks of disgust on our faces confirmed to Lloyd that he was well and truly on his own and that spectators we would remain. 

As the tears started to well in his eyes he doggedly continued to push the dime further and further into the recesses of his face and when, with a full two knuckles in, he unclenched his face, opened his mouth and uttered those horrible words: “Oh my god, it’s gone.”

Gone?

Gone?!

And while none of us knew a thing about the physiology of the sinus system we all knew that the disappearance of the dime meant a lot more than the loss of 10 cents.  Surely, any minute Lloyd Donaldson would fall stone dead to the floor and WE would be in more trouble than we ever knew.  And just like that, without even having to say a word, the assembled gawkers turned heel and fled leaving a stunned but not entirely surprised Lloyd Donaldson who, 10 cents wealthier, was utterly terrified.

To this day, I have no idea if Lloyd Donaldson ever recovered that dime or if  he carries it around in his sinus cavity, a reminder that fitting in can be an expensive prospect.