Dear Cell Phone Company,
In the next few days you will be receiving a package from me containing the
remnants of my cell phone. You see, I ran over it with my car today and
thought you would appreciate the pieces. Please feel free to place them in
whatever uncomfortable orifice you feel is most appropriate at the time.
At last, I’ve reached the frayed end of my very short patience with your lack
of competency in the technological advancement department. I realize that
my apartment is located over a direct portal to the underworld, but I should
not have to turn into a Verizon commercial every time I need to make a call.
I grow weary of having to stand in one particular corner of one particular
room, stand on one leg, raise my arm over my head, on the peak of the full
moon and keep the antenna at a 45 degree angle at all times. And now it is
not only my apartment, but the grocery store, the mall, the interstate, the
bar, and apparently the drycleaners.
People are beginning to talk about my screaming into the phone. “Do you think it’s turned on?” They whisper. “Perhaps we should call the police?” Is this your not so subtle way of
telling me that I should go back to a landline or that I talk on the phone
too much? That’s a little passive aggressive, if you ask me. My mother
would be proud of your tactics, but I’m not amused. So, since you find no
fault with your little piece of slave-labor-assembled, imported plastic and
mysterious alloy piece of crap I am returning it to you.
Don’t bother trying to reach me. I’m currently on the phone with Hell to arrange for a
better service plan.
Can You Hear Me?