Hi,
First off, let me just say that I understand the difficulties of your job moreso than most. I myself worked in a deli for three years - it was a position very similar to yours, with perhaps only superficial differences. So I know some of the problems you guys face on a daily basis.
I am referring, of course, to the "exact weight" customer - someone who wants exactly 100 grams of sliced meat, and if you go even two grams over, will ask that you shave some off to make it an even 100g. I have dealt with these people, and I know how frustrating they can be. That being said, you and I both know that most customers will shrug if you go a little bit over and say "close enough". If they want 100g and you accidentally slice 120g, they're fine with that.
That being said, when I ask for fifty grams of turkey meat, I am not going to shrug and say "close enough" when you put one hundred and ten grams on the scale. That is more than twice what I asked for, after all. Would you say "close enough" if you ordered an 8 oz. steak at a restaurant and instead got a 20 oz. steak, and then were charged the full price?
The fact is, I wanted enough meat for one sandwich. I realize it's only a difference about one dollar, but it's really the principle of the thing. Not to mention the fact that I'm not exactly rolling in the dough right now, and these days, every dollar counts.
So when I said "actually, can I get fifty grams?" when you started packaging up that 110g of meat without asking me, you had no right to make a face. And I think you realized this yourself, because shortly thereafter, you took off enough meat to make it 50g, and then put the meat back on the scale and wrapped it, giving me sixty grams of sliced turkey for free.
I appreciate the gesture, and I thanked you for it. And then I turned to leave. And you made another face, one that looked sort of like a pug that ate a bad prune. It was a face that said "I can't believe how unappreciative that guy is, after I went and did such a nice thing for him!"
But let's be honest, here. If you didn't give it to me for free, you'd be throwing that meat out - so it cost you nothing. It just meant that when you take the garbage out, the bag is going to weigh about sixty grams less. And it's not as if I went up to you, begging for sixty grams of free meat. I wanted roughly fifty grams (or forty grams, or sixty grams, maybe even seventy grams), and I was willing to pay that amount.
So please, don't expect me to treat this exchange as if you've just given me a free car, or offered a spare kidney you just had lying around.
Please keep this in mind in the future.
Yours truly,
Newt.
P.S. Oh, yeah. Telling me that turkey and chicken "are the same thing" is kind of a stupid thing to say, especially when you work in a deli.
Showing posts with label an open letter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label an open letter. Show all posts
Dear Woman Calling CBC Radio 3....
When you are calling CBC Radio 3, and the hosts ask you a little bit about yourself, it's kind of stupid to start off your spiel by saying "Well, I'm Canadian" and then talking about your university - and telling the hosts where that university is.
I'm going to let you in on a little secret - "CBC" stands for "Canadian Broadcasting Company". In other words, those guys are just as Canadian as you are, sweetcheeks. Which is probably why you are able to listen to that radio station.
Also, when they went "Ah..." after your little Canadian announcement, it wasn't because they were interested or thought it was strange. It was out of pity, and the fact that they were fighting the urge to make fun of you. To be honest, I'm amazed they were able to resist.
God knows I wasn't.
I'm going to let you in on a little secret - "CBC" stands for "Canadian Broadcasting Company". In other words, those guys are just as Canadian as you are, sweetcheeks. Which is probably why you are able to listen to that radio station.
Also, when they went "Ah..." after your little Canadian announcement, it wasn't because they were interested or thought it was strange. It was out of pity, and the fact that they were fighting the urge to make fun of you. To be honest, I'm amazed they were able to resist.
God knows I wasn't.
An Open Letter to the douchebag who called me at work:
Dear sir:
While I am an administrator and not a collector, I do understand that I do, in fact, work in a collection agency. So trust me when I say that I realize part of my job is dealing with angry people. In fact, I do it almost every day - people are constantly yelling at me, screaming at me to remove their credit bureau listings, and telling that they have no debts with my company.
But you, sir, brought douchebaggery to a new level. Were there an award for being a douche, you would win the gold, with that guy from the Slap Chop commercials to your right, and Tiger Woods to your left. That's right, sir - I seriously think you have a chance of winning the douche olympics.
What are the douche olympics, you ask? Why, they are a competition of all of the world's douches, fighting to see who is the world's biggest douche. There are dozens of categories, judges from all over the world, and they're even televised - you can watch every event on FOX.
It isn't that you excel in one particular area of douchery, but rather that you have high levels of douchery in multiple fields. You, sir, could "own the podium". You have that lack of intelligence and vocabulary necessary for douches the world over. You have that self-centred attitude that is endemic to the western world. And you have all of the charm of a rabid rattlesnake. Add it all together, and we can see why you could have the gold hanging around your neck.
For example, telling me that you're going to file a "class action lawsuit" against my company because we're calling you for a debt... that's not the brightest thing. When I accidentally mention to you that it's impossible for one person to file a class action lawsuit, especially over three phone calls, your response should not be to correct me with an obvious lie ("my lawyer will be contacting you about this class action lawsuit if you don't do what I say"). That's a hell of a lot better than the Nigerian who can't figure out a better way to get rid of his father's crooked oil money.
Expecting that we automatically know the second you hit "payment submitted" on your online banking reeks of self-centred douchebaggery - as if I wait by my computer, anxiously waiting for the moment you pay off your one hundred and thirteen dollar bill. And then trying to explain to me how online banking works - me, the guy who processes online payments for about three hours out of every day - well, that little feat put you miles ahead of that Polish contestant who likes to kick cans at slow children.
Screaming at our receptionist got you some points. As did refusing to leave a message - I particularly like the fact that you called us over ten times, and never left a single message. Had you left a message, we would have replied a lot sooner, and your issue would have been cleared.
So, yeah, you're going to win the douche olympics. Great for you! Unfortunately, I had to listen to your screaming tirade over the phone. And while I know you thought you were intimidating me with your foul language and falsetto screeching reminiscent of feral baboons, in reality, I was making faces at the phone and searching google. Like I said, I've been screamed at before.
But here's the part where karma bites you in the ass. See, it turns out, we owe you money. We owe you a little over a hundred bucks, due to a clerical error we made a few weeks ago. I tried to tell you this - twice - but you screamed over me. I gave it my college best, and I certainly wasn't going to bust a nut helping you. Fact is, I don't think anyone will - there are several notes in your file that you're a douchebag.
I have a feeling that money will be sitting there until you actually listen to the people you're screaming at. Until then, though... we'll be on the other end of the phone, making fun of you.
Enjoy your gold medal.
Douche.
While I am an administrator and not a collector, I do understand that I do, in fact, work in a collection agency. So trust me when I say that I realize part of my job is dealing with angry people. In fact, I do it almost every day - people are constantly yelling at me, screaming at me to remove their credit bureau listings, and telling that they have no debts with my company.
But you, sir, brought douchebaggery to a new level. Were there an award for being a douche, you would win the gold, with that guy from the Slap Chop commercials to your right, and Tiger Woods to your left. That's right, sir - I seriously think you have a chance of winning the douche olympics.
What are the douche olympics, you ask? Why, they are a competition of all of the world's douches, fighting to see who is the world's biggest douche. There are dozens of categories, judges from all over the world, and they're even televised - you can watch every event on FOX.
It isn't that you excel in one particular area of douchery, but rather that you have high levels of douchery in multiple fields. You, sir, could "own the podium". You have that lack of intelligence and vocabulary necessary for douches the world over. You have that self-centred attitude that is endemic to the western world. And you have all of the charm of a rabid rattlesnake. Add it all together, and we can see why you could have the gold hanging around your neck.
For example, telling me that you're going to file a "class action lawsuit" against my company because we're calling you for a debt... that's not the brightest thing. When I accidentally mention to you that it's impossible for one person to file a class action lawsuit, especially over three phone calls, your response should not be to correct me with an obvious lie ("my lawyer will be contacting you about this class action lawsuit if you don't do what I say"). That's a hell of a lot better than the Nigerian who can't figure out a better way to get rid of his father's crooked oil money.
Expecting that we automatically know the second you hit "payment submitted" on your online banking reeks of self-centred douchebaggery - as if I wait by my computer, anxiously waiting for the moment you pay off your one hundred and thirteen dollar bill. And then trying to explain to me how online banking works - me, the guy who processes online payments for about three hours out of every day - well, that little feat put you miles ahead of that Polish contestant who likes to kick cans at slow children.
Screaming at our receptionist got you some points. As did refusing to leave a message - I particularly like the fact that you called us over ten times, and never left a single message. Had you left a message, we would have replied a lot sooner, and your issue would have been cleared.
So, yeah, you're going to win the douche olympics. Great for you! Unfortunately, I had to listen to your screaming tirade over the phone. And while I know you thought you were intimidating me with your foul language and falsetto screeching reminiscent of feral baboons, in reality, I was making faces at the phone and searching google. Like I said, I've been screamed at before.
But here's the part where karma bites you in the ass. See, it turns out, we owe you money. We owe you a little over a hundred bucks, due to a clerical error we made a few weeks ago. I tried to tell you this - twice - but you screamed over me. I gave it my college best, and I certainly wasn't going to bust a nut helping you. Fact is, I don't think anyone will - there are several notes in your file that you're a douchebag.
I have a feeling that money will be sitting there until you actually listen to the people you're screaming at. Until then, though... we'll be on the other end of the phone, making fun of you.
Enjoy your gold medal.
Douche.
An Open Letter to the Ladder Idiot
Dear "Handyman":
A little over six months ago, I was spending nearly every spare minute working on my Occupational First Aid Level Three ticket. The course, if you don't know, is the highest level of first aid attainable in British Columbia. It falls just short of the requirement for entry-level paramedics - in fact, were I to become an entry-level paramedic, it would be only a week's worth of schooling.
I'm telling you this to give you an idea of where I'm coming from. I've been in many simulated emergencies, including people landing on sharpened pikes of rebar, chainsaw injuries, and men and women getting crushed by errant forklifts. I've also done extensive training on ladder injuries.
You see, there are a lot of idiots in B.C. that are careless while on ladders. In fact, ladder injuries are one of the leading methods of injury on Worker's Compensation claims in this lovely province of ours, to the point that there are even ad campaigns warning you guys.
Based on wednesday's experience, I'm pretty sure you've never seen these ads, so I'll summarize them for you. They show an idiot on a ladder, and a caption that says "Don't be so fucking stupid, you moron."
I'm paraphrasing, but you get the drift.
You probably don't know who I am. I'm the ginger-haired guy who said "I wonder if he knows he won't be able to claim WCB when he falls, because he's using that ladder improperly". I know you heard me, because you shot me a very dirty glance. But I'll let you in on a little secret - I wanted you to hear me.
You see, you were standing on the top rung of a ladder - you might not have seen the warning that says "Do not stand here" or "This is not a step"... you were, after all, standing on it. But that sign is there to protect you - you have absolutely no traction while on that step, and even a slight movement at the base of the ladder is amplified up there.
You see, should that asian girl doing taxes on a computer at the base of your ladder move and accidentally bump your ladder, you'd have nothing to catch onto - you have no "points of contact". And you'd fall. And hit that asian girl doing taxes on your way down. And her computer. And her cute little Hello Kitty backpack.
In short, you would be landing on an overdone stereotype.
So, when I was asking the supervisors who the first aid attendant was, it wasn't to be an ass. It was in the (vain) hopes you'd get some common sense and maybe try to find a safer alternative. It was also to figure out why in the name of hell the supervisors were letting you get away with this - after all, were you to fall, you can bet it'd be their asses on the fire.
I know how your mind works, because it's how the mind of every injured worker works - "I'm careful, and it's never happened to me before, so...". Which is, of course, the stupidest thing in the world. I've never been hit by a car before, but you can bet I still look ways before I cross the street, and wait for the "walk" sign to flash before my feet touch asphalt.
What you don't know is that I was already preparing for your fall. Every time you wobbled, I was ready to spring into action. I had already figured out who my helpers would be when it came time to immobilize your neck. I knew who was calling the paramedics, and how I was going to deal with the panicky people. I knew how I'd handle the situation were you to strike someone on your way down, or get cut up from shattering a computer monitor. While I had never had an actual first aid emergency happen on my watch, I felt pretty confident in my abilities to handle the situation at hand.
In short, were you to slip and drop twenty feet to the ground, I was ready for it. And, you may not like this, but I was hoping it would happen.
Why? Because sir, you are an idiot, and even though you didn't fall today, it is going to happen if you keep doing stupid things like this. So I have no remorse for you when you get hit, because you heard warnings, and you ignored them. As for me, well... I could use the practice.
You got away lucky today. But it's just a matter of time. See you soon.
A little over six months ago, I was spending nearly every spare minute working on my Occupational First Aid Level Three ticket. The course, if you don't know, is the highest level of first aid attainable in British Columbia. It falls just short of the requirement for entry-level paramedics - in fact, were I to become an entry-level paramedic, it would be only a week's worth of schooling.
I'm telling you this to give you an idea of where I'm coming from. I've been in many simulated emergencies, including people landing on sharpened pikes of rebar, chainsaw injuries, and men and women getting crushed by errant forklifts. I've also done extensive training on ladder injuries.
You see, there are a lot of idiots in B.C. that are careless while on ladders. In fact, ladder injuries are one of the leading methods of injury on Worker's Compensation claims in this lovely province of ours, to the point that there are even ad campaigns warning you guys.
Based on wednesday's experience, I'm pretty sure you've never seen these ads, so I'll summarize them for you. They show an idiot on a ladder, and a caption that says "Don't be so fucking stupid, you moron."
I'm paraphrasing, but you get the drift.
You probably don't know who I am. I'm the ginger-haired guy who said "I wonder if he knows he won't be able to claim WCB when he falls, because he's using that ladder improperly". I know you heard me, because you shot me a very dirty glance. But I'll let you in on a little secret - I wanted you to hear me.
You see, you were standing on the top rung of a ladder - you might not have seen the warning that says "Do not stand here" or "This is not a step"... you were, after all, standing on it. But that sign is there to protect you - you have absolutely no traction while on that step, and even a slight movement at the base of the ladder is amplified up there.
You see, should that asian girl doing taxes on a computer at the base of your ladder move and accidentally bump your ladder, you'd have nothing to catch onto - you have no "points of contact". And you'd fall. And hit that asian girl doing taxes on your way down. And her computer. And her cute little Hello Kitty backpack.
In short, you would be landing on an overdone stereotype.
So, when I was asking the supervisors who the first aid attendant was, it wasn't to be an ass. It was in the (vain) hopes you'd get some common sense and maybe try to find a safer alternative. It was also to figure out why in the name of hell the supervisors were letting you get away with this - after all, were you to fall, you can bet it'd be their asses on the fire.
I know how your mind works, because it's how the mind of every injured worker works - "I'm careful, and it's never happened to me before, so...". Which is, of course, the stupidest thing in the world. I've never been hit by a car before, but you can bet I still look ways before I cross the street, and wait for the "walk" sign to flash before my feet touch asphalt.
What you don't know is that I was already preparing for your fall. Every time you wobbled, I was ready to spring into action. I had already figured out who my helpers would be when it came time to immobilize your neck. I knew who was calling the paramedics, and how I was going to deal with the panicky people. I knew how I'd handle the situation were you to strike someone on your way down, or get cut up from shattering a computer monitor. While I had never had an actual first aid emergency happen on my watch, I felt pretty confident in my abilities to handle the situation at hand.
In short, were you to slip and drop twenty feet to the ground, I was ready for it. And, you may not like this, but I was hoping it would happen.
Why? Because sir, you are an idiot, and even though you didn't fall today, it is going to happen if you keep doing stupid things like this. So I have no remorse for you when you get hit, because you heard warnings, and you ignored them. As for me, well... I could use the practice.
You got away lucky today. But it's just a matter of time. See you soon.
An open letter to McDonald's:
Dear McDonald's:
I have to say, I haven't really been to your chain in at least a few weeks, which is a trend I plan on continuing for a long time.
It's not you, McDonald's, it's me. I guess I've just come to respect my body, and have absolutely no desire to fill it with the carbohydrate-stuffed poison that you are wont to serve. Seriously, even your salads seem like a health nightmare. How is it that you can screw up a salad? I really want to know.
A few days ago, I was walking by one of your lovely stores near the Wal-Mart, on my way to find wrapping paper and other christmas accoutrements. And there, on your billboard, was the most baffling announcement I have ever seen:
two new smore pies for 1.39
Smore pies? Are you kidding me? I can understand adding a new pie flavour - at the very least, your apple pies smelled appetizing, which is above and beyond anything else you serve. But there are a lot of pie flavours I would consider before a smore. Like, I don't know, "Blueberry". Or, to be quite honest, "Danny DeVito". A smore pie is about as unhealthy as you can get. I can imagine the board meeting you guys had before deciding upon this particular flavour.
"Guys, we have a problem," one board executive says, secretly fretting about his receding hairline.
"I agree. We are not killing our customers fast enough!" another adds
The group nods in unison. They know that, despite their best efforts, too many McDonald's customers are surviving their dining experience. And that just won't do.
"How can we fix this?"
"We need a new pie flavour, a flavour so filled with garbage that those who eat it are destined for an early death."
"I got it!" one man exclaims, in a classic "Eureka!" pose. "SMORE FLAVOURED PIE!"
Dear McDonalds.... I imagine, at that board meeting, that you all high-fived one another, and released your gastronomical experiment upon an unsuspecting populace. I can't believe you would so irresponsibly release such a product upon the masses, knowing full well that this is just another nail in their coffin.
And at two for 1.39, how can they turn it down?
I have to say, I haven't really been to your chain in at least a few weeks, which is a trend I plan on continuing for a long time.
It's not you, McDonald's, it's me. I guess I've just come to respect my body, and have absolutely no desire to fill it with the carbohydrate-stuffed poison that you are wont to serve. Seriously, even your salads seem like a health nightmare. How is it that you can screw up a salad? I really want to know.
A few days ago, I was walking by one of your lovely stores near the Wal-Mart, on my way to find wrapping paper and other christmas accoutrements. And there, on your billboard, was the most baffling announcement I have ever seen:
two new smore pies for 1.39
Smore pies? Are you kidding me? I can understand adding a new pie flavour - at the very least, your apple pies smelled appetizing, which is above and beyond anything else you serve. But there are a lot of pie flavours I would consider before a smore. Like, I don't know, "Blueberry". Or, to be quite honest, "Danny DeVito". A smore pie is about as unhealthy as you can get. I can imagine the board meeting you guys had before deciding upon this particular flavour.
"Guys, we have a problem," one board executive says, secretly fretting about his receding hairline.
"I agree. We are not killing our customers fast enough!" another adds
The group nods in unison. They know that, despite their best efforts, too many McDonald's customers are surviving their dining experience. And that just won't do.
"How can we fix this?"
"We need a new pie flavour, a flavour so filled with garbage that those who eat it are destined for an early death."
"I got it!" one man exclaims, in a classic "Eureka!" pose. "SMORE FLAVOURED PIE!"
Dear McDonalds.... I imagine, at that board meeting, that you all high-fived one another, and released your gastronomical experiment upon an unsuspecting populace. I can't believe you would so irresponsibly release such a product upon the masses, knowing full well that this is just another nail in their coffin.
And at two for 1.39, how can they turn it down?
An Open Letter to the Cute McDonald's Employee
Dear cute girl that works at McDonald's,
First off, I want to congratulate you on your cuteness. I am not a frequent McDonald's customer, but from my limited observations, I have come to the conclusion that it has to be very difficult to look cute in an ill-fitting blue T-shirt, black dress pants, and the ugliest hat ever seen. Plus, the grease that hangs in the air like humidity probably detracts from overall cuteness, in the long run. So, congrats on that.
No, really.
With that out of the way, I really do want to congratulate you. You are, in fact, only the second person I've met at your particular McDonald's location that seems to have any sort of work ethic. I am referring, of course, to the salad I ordered from your location yesterday, at around 11 pm. You were obviously out of salad at that hour, and no new ones had been made. Instead of saying "we're out" (which I have heard many, many times), you noticed it wasn't busy -it was 11 pm, after all- and ran into the back and made me one by hand.
Not only that, but you did all the right things. You said "hello" to me. And you told me to "have a nice day". Even though it was, like I said, 11 pm, I still appreciate that. You did all of this while the guy that was supposed to be in the kitchen (ie, the guy who could have made my salad) was rapping along to the music playing, and your other co-worker hid around a corner and kept peeking out a male customer sitting at a table and giggling.
Neither of them were very cute. Not at all.
I know it must be very difficult for a McDonald's employee, especially in this neighbourhood. I imagine you get a lot of drunks, drug addicts, homeless, and generally violent people. I've seen them at your location, in fact. I know that people probably flip out on you for the most minor of mistakes - if the kitchen staff accidentally puts cheese on that "no cheese cheesburger", for example. And I once saw a women scream at one of your co-workers because she didn't have enough money to pay for her meal... she was around fifty cents short.
Of course, I am not like a lot of the people in this neighbourhood, but I often get lumped in with them. So, I doubly appreciate the fact that you didn't treat me like garbage, and actually went through the work of making me my caesar salad. It was truly a grand gesture, and it really makes you stand out.
However, you forgot to give me croutons. The nerve! Obviously, you did this to make me look like a fool. A crouton-loving, red-haired fool, and I do not appreciate your cruelty. In fact, as soon as I saw your error, I threw my coat on, with the full intention of marching right back to your McDonald's and screaming at you. Possibly while drunk and belligerent. Forget my croutons, will you? The nerve. The umbrage!
With my jacket and shoes on, I left my apartment in a rage. And then realized it was still raining.
So I watched Two and a Half Men instead.
Crisis averted.
First off, I want to congratulate you on your cuteness. I am not a frequent McDonald's customer, but from my limited observations, I have come to the conclusion that it has to be very difficult to look cute in an ill-fitting blue T-shirt, black dress pants, and the ugliest hat ever seen. Plus, the grease that hangs in the air like humidity probably detracts from overall cuteness, in the long run. So, congrats on that.
No, really.
With that out of the way, I really do want to congratulate you. You are, in fact, only the second person I've met at your particular McDonald's location that seems to have any sort of work ethic. I am referring, of course, to the salad I ordered from your location yesterday, at around 11 pm. You were obviously out of salad at that hour, and no new ones had been made. Instead of saying "we're out" (which I have heard many, many times), you noticed it wasn't busy -it was 11 pm, after all- and ran into the back and made me one by hand.
Not only that, but you did all the right things. You said "hello" to me. And you told me to "have a nice day". Even though it was, like I said, 11 pm, I still appreciate that. You did all of this while the guy that was supposed to be in the kitchen (ie, the guy who could have made my salad) was rapping along to the music playing, and your other co-worker hid around a corner and kept peeking out a male customer sitting at a table and giggling.
Neither of them were very cute. Not at all.
I know it must be very difficult for a McDonald's employee, especially in this neighbourhood. I imagine you get a lot of drunks, drug addicts, homeless, and generally violent people. I've seen them at your location, in fact. I know that people probably flip out on you for the most minor of mistakes - if the kitchen staff accidentally puts cheese on that "no cheese cheesburger", for example. And I once saw a women scream at one of your co-workers because she didn't have enough money to pay for her meal... she was around fifty cents short.
Of course, I am not like a lot of the people in this neighbourhood, but I often get lumped in with them. So, I doubly appreciate the fact that you didn't treat me like garbage, and actually went through the work of making me my caesar salad. It was truly a grand gesture, and it really makes you stand out.
However, you forgot to give me croutons. The nerve! Obviously, you did this to make me look like a fool. A crouton-loving, red-haired fool, and I do not appreciate your cruelty. In fact, as soon as I saw your error, I threw my coat on, with the full intention of marching right back to your McDonald's and screaming at you. Possibly while drunk and belligerent. Forget my croutons, will you? The nerve. The umbrage!
With my jacket and shoes on, I left my apartment in a rage. And then realized it was still raining.
So I watched Two and a Half Men instead.
Crisis averted.
An Open Letter to the Drummer who lives Above Me...
Dear sir,
I would like to preface this by saying that, generally speaking, I am a fan of music. I encourage people to pursue their musical ambitions. I am not generally bugged by loud noises, either, and I can honestly say that if you were practicing your drums at a decent hour, I would have very little complaint (but see below).
That being said, I would like to remind you that you and I are both residents of an apartment complex, and as such, we should be aware of those who live around us. What this means for you, unfortunately, is that there are certain times when practicing your drumming is a poor idea. Midnight on a weekday, for example, is probably not the time to be practicing - it may be perfectly fine when you play at your parents' place in the middle of rural nowhere, but in a grungy apartment in downtown Victoria, midnight drumming is a bad idea. You'll wake the homeless.
I remember last year, lying in bed at 11:30 pm, staring up at my ceiling. I wasn't particularly perturbed by your drumming at this point; it bugged me a little (I must admit) that you would be so inconsiderate as to play at such a late hour, but the sound itself was not the problem. However, my girlfriend at the time - who had to be at work for 5 am the next morning - was quite annoyed, and spent the better part of an hour ranting about the manner in which she would kill you. I was able to keep her away from the sharp knives, and eventually succeeded in calming her down.
Sir, you do not know me, but you should thank me, for it is very possible that I saved your life last year.
However, your drumming has only escalated since then. I can hear a piano playing as well during these late night drumming sessions, so I can only assume you are in some sort of band, and that this band is composed of people as equally insensitive to the presence of neighbours as yourself.
Again, when I started hearing these band practices, I was not truly annoyed. But as time has gone by, I've become increasingly agitated. Not so much at the volume, although - as I've said earlier - I find your inconsideration offensive. Instead, I am becoming more and more upset about the nature of the songs you practice.
You see, for the past year, you have been playing the same song.
I am sure you know it. It consists of you wailing on the bass drum in a slightly off-rhythm manner, while the piano plays a line that could have easily been lifted off the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. This line then proceeds into a slow, somewhat melodic piece, before once again regressing to some sort of major-scale march.
Sir, I beg you. Play another song. I mean no offence when I say this, but that song you play is horrible. I get it stuck in my head, and it won't get out. I dream about this piano line. And I'm not talking about good dreams. I'm talking about those dreams where you can hear circus music playing in the background, a mime is laughing at you on a carousel while spiders crawl out of your eyelids.
This is not like how I'll get The Beatles' Octopus' Garden stuck in my head for a day or two. Because, while that song is not particularly good, it is at least a cheerful, happy song. This is more like when I get that annoying song by Rihanna stuck in my head for days on end, to the point where I'm seriously debating drilling it out with some sort of blunt instrument. And then, when I finally get rid of the song through liberal use of alcohol and self-pleasuring around the hour, I'll soon thereafter hear the song play on a cell phone ringtone, and have to begin the entire process over again.
I do not want to hum your song, sir. And I'm currently on a vow to avoid as much self-pleasuring as possible.
Until recently, I worked for the BC Provincial Government, and my job was to help process applications for Security Guards (among other things). One day, while mailing out licences, I came across an address. After doing a double take, I realized that I was holding the licence of a worker that lived directly above my apartment. "This is the guy who plays the drums," I said to myself, shocked and surprised. What were the odds I would chance upon your information, after all?
I must admit, a mischievious grin played across my face. I imagined all sorts of ways I could abuse my power - I could "accidentally" forget to mail out your licence. I could get ahold of your phone number, and call you at 2 am and give you a taste of your own medicine. Or I could include a veiled threat in the envelope along with your licence.
I did none of these things, because I had taken an oath as a government worker. But I did have your name, and all of your relevant information, because I had fallen upon it and once seeing it, could not automatically forget it. I knew, though, as long as I was a government worker, I could not act upon the information I had, no matter how annoying your drumming and tone-deaf piano marches got.
Only now, I'm not a government worker. I'm an unemployed, pissed off, bored person.
Sir, I know a lot about you, through random chance. I know your name. I know where you work, and what you do at work. I know how much money you make (and I apologize), when and where you were born, your phone number, and your criminal background. And of course, I know where you live.
Dear sir.
Stop playing the fucking drums at midnight, or you will regret it.
Thank you, and have a great day.
I would like to preface this by saying that, generally speaking, I am a fan of music. I encourage people to pursue their musical ambitions. I am not generally bugged by loud noises, either, and I can honestly say that if you were practicing your drums at a decent hour, I would have very little complaint (but see below).
That being said, I would like to remind you that you and I are both residents of an apartment complex, and as such, we should be aware of those who live around us. What this means for you, unfortunately, is that there are certain times when practicing your drumming is a poor idea. Midnight on a weekday, for example, is probably not the time to be practicing - it may be perfectly fine when you play at your parents' place in the middle of rural nowhere, but in a grungy apartment in downtown Victoria, midnight drumming is a bad idea. You'll wake the homeless.
I remember last year, lying in bed at 11:30 pm, staring up at my ceiling. I wasn't particularly perturbed by your drumming at this point; it bugged me a little (I must admit) that you would be so inconsiderate as to play at such a late hour, but the sound itself was not the problem. However, my girlfriend at the time - who had to be at work for 5 am the next morning - was quite annoyed, and spent the better part of an hour ranting about the manner in which she would kill you. I was able to keep her away from the sharp knives, and eventually succeeded in calming her down.
Sir, you do not know me, but you should thank me, for it is very possible that I saved your life last year.
However, your drumming has only escalated since then. I can hear a piano playing as well during these late night drumming sessions, so I can only assume you are in some sort of band, and that this band is composed of people as equally insensitive to the presence of neighbours as yourself.
Again, when I started hearing these band practices, I was not truly annoyed. But as time has gone by, I've become increasingly agitated. Not so much at the volume, although - as I've said earlier - I find your inconsideration offensive. Instead, I am becoming more and more upset about the nature of the songs you practice.
You see, for the past year, you have been playing the same song.
I am sure you know it. It consists of you wailing on the bass drum in a slightly off-rhythm manner, while the piano plays a line that could have easily been lifted off the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. This line then proceeds into a slow, somewhat melodic piece, before once again regressing to some sort of major-scale march.
Sir, I beg you. Play another song. I mean no offence when I say this, but that song you play is horrible. I get it stuck in my head, and it won't get out. I dream about this piano line. And I'm not talking about good dreams. I'm talking about those dreams where you can hear circus music playing in the background, a mime is laughing at you on a carousel while spiders crawl out of your eyelids.
This is not like how I'll get The Beatles' Octopus' Garden stuck in my head for a day or two. Because, while that song is not particularly good, it is at least a cheerful, happy song. This is more like when I get that annoying song by Rihanna stuck in my head for days on end, to the point where I'm seriously debating drilling it out with some sort of blunt instrument. And then, when I finally get rid of the song through liberal use of alcohol and self-pleasuring around the hour, I'll soon thereafter hear the song play on a cell phone ringtone, and have to begin the entire process over again.
I do not want to hum your song, sir. And I'm currently on a vow to avoid as much self-pleasuring as possible.
Until recently, I worked for the BC Provincial Government, and my job was to help process applications for Security Guards (among other things). One day, while mailing out licences, I came across an address. After doing a double take, I realized that I was holding the licence of a worker that lived directly above my apartment. "This is the guy who plays the drums," I said to myself, shocked and surprised. What were the odds I would chance upon your information, after all?
I must admit, a mischievious grin played across my face. I imagined all sorts of ways I could abuse my power - I could "accidentally" forget to mail out your licence. I could get ahold of your phone number, and call you at 2 am and give you a taste of your own medicine. Or I could include a veiled threat in the envelope along with your licence.
I did none of these things, because I had taken an oath as a government worker. But I did have your name, and all of your relevant information, because I had fallen upon it and once seeing it, could not automatically forget it. I knew, though, as long as I was a government worker, I could not act upon the information I had, no matter how annoying your drumming and tone-deaf piano marches got.
Only now, I'm not a government worker. I'm an unemployed, pissed off, bored person.
Sir, I know a lot about you, through random chance. I know your name. I know where you work, and what you do at work. I know how much money you make (and I apologize), when and where you were born, your phone number, and your criminal background. And of course, I know where you live.
Dear sir.
Stop playing the fucking drums at midnight, or you will regret it.
Thank you, and have a great day.
(signed)
David S. Percival
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