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