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