I DEMAND YOU CORRECT MY MISTAKE
I make enough stupid mistakes in this bent little life I'm living without having to heap on the stupid mistakes of stupider people than me. Right? Isn't that in the Constitution? The New Deal? The Taxpayer Bill of Rights? The Teapot Dome Scandal? Seward's Folly? What about The Gulf of Tonkin Resolution? It's somewhere in there. You can trust me on that. I've read them all start to finish.
With that being said, I think my rights have been violated by customer M. Parrish. You be the judge:
"I ordered the VW dog collar and leash, I have no idea what this is I received. I will not use it on my dog. I cannot even tell what it is. Not what I ordered or wanted."
Oh yes, you did order that horrible, horrible collar with all the cheap beer cans on it, my lovely little psychopath. See?
You can see the restrained response I left on the product page. Originally, I thought I shouldn't respond because she never asked for a refund and I really didn't want to reward her for being a self-absorbed, passive-aggressive jerk.
But the whole situation kept picking away at my brain until it was dry and scabbed. I had to respond. People who saw this collar and/or leash would think the quality sucked. Or they'd think I sucked for sending her the wrong stuff and not responding.
In the eyes of the general public, I had to respond in a measured, restrained way. In my newsletter, however, I can respond however I want.
And I want to respond like a raving lunatic.
I find it amazingly apropos that you wanted the VW Collar and leash, but ordered the Cheap Buzz ensemble.
Most people with drug or alcohol problems don't remember what the hell they did the night before. Believe me. I've been there. After drinking an entire bottle of something called "Eddie Chuckleberry's Royal Vdka (sic)" I once ordered every single part of a 2018 Ford F150 through the mail thinking I would put it together in the morning.
Everything was delivered by an army of enormous flatbed trucks with small cranes about two weeks later. I had no idea what was going on. All the parts were there, but there were also things like topiary trimmers, crawdad peelers, and the complete works and nude photos of Ariana Huffington.
Unfortunately, I could not buy the tiny computer that regulated fuel consumption because it was a matter of national security. Evidently, not selling the engine computer to me kept vital technology away from the North Koreans and Chinese. Probably those same hormone-sodden US 8th graders, too.
I made my money back by charging local elementary schoolers $20 to shoot my neighbor's car with a rail gun I got from a military surplus garage sale at Camp Pendleton. I have yet to make a dime on Ariana Huffington's nude material, though. Not even from the 8th grade boys drowning in their own hormones.
Anyway Matrisha, I suggest you dry out for a couple days and try sending me the offending collars you ordered. I realize the world is a scary place without the buttressing effects of sweet, sweet, life-giving alcohol. But you need to persevere. The refund will be worth at least two cases of Thunderbird fortified wine and perhaps several barely-cracked bottles of muscatel.
In closing, I would like to invite you to my private nude beach in St. Tropez. Send a current photo, updated resume, and proof you are STD-Free with all speed.
~ Don (Not a Dog)
Instead of censored namby-pamby, I use harsh language and hardcore nudity in our November newsletter to get my points across. Explore it all here: https://mailchi.mp/twosaltydogs/the-salty-paws-november-2023-7226136
Subscribe to The Salty Paws and see my ongoing project where I take photographs of my ass that are aligned with the phases of the moon. https://us8.list-manage.com/subscribe?u=0e5740287c6b4fe45247c8351&id=315369d469