Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Open Letter to This Nation's Retailers

Dear Retail Outlets of the United States:

How are you?  I am fine.

Listen we've got to talk about my email inbox.  You all need to cut it the fuck out, mm...kay?  Seriously stop it.  It has gotten to the point where I get probably fifty emails per day from you bastards. 

Now, I understand that some marketing focus group has put it in your stupid pea brains that you must maintain CONSTANT CONTACT with your customers.  I wish I knew what sub-human was spreading such vial garbage so I could collect some holy relics, chant some words from a forgotten tomb of evil and send that creature back to the demon dimension from whence it came. Until that day, I will just have to be content with telling you all how wrong that concept is.

It seems to me we have to have The Talk.  You know what I'm talking about, right?  In some circles is called the Define the Relationship talk.   In others it is called the Last Warning Before I Get a Fucking Restraining Order talk.  It's basically the same talk either way.

Here it is.  Ours is a buyer-seller relationship.  When, in the course of my day I, for example, need a set of marital aids bearing the likeness of the cast of Firefly, I will come to you either in person or via the Internet and inquire as to whether or not you have such and item.  If you indeed have such a thing that you are willing to give me for a set price, I will then arrange for funds to be transferred to you, you give me this thing I need and I GO ABOUT MY FUCKING LIFE.

See, I feel like you don't respect me.  In the commercial hell-scape you call a mind, I feel like you see me as nothing but some dancing elf whose entire existence revolves around buying shit from you.  And any waking moment spent not shopping should be spent earning just enough money to come back and buy more shit.  Also it seems that you believe that I am so dumb that if, by some unimaginable oversight, you don't bombard my neurons with constant corporate stimulus, I will somehow FORGET that you exist!  That I would be stuck in my apartment sitting in the middle of the living room floor in hysterics because I have ALL THIS MONEY and I DON'T KNOW WHERE TO SPEND IT ALL!  WAAAA!

Let me clarify this.  I know your there.  It's okay.  I just don't need any shit from you right this second.  I'm good, thanks for asking.  If I need something, I know where you are.  I obviously found you once, I am fully capable of doing it again.

Fuck off.  Leave me alone.  Or else I will go to this other person to buy something... right up until they ask my email address too... fuck!

Love Jeremy.

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