Press nine to say eff u…

Dear Sir:

I am writing to thank you for bouncing my check with which I endeavoured to pay my plumber last month. By my calculations, three ‘nanoseconds’ must have elapsed between his presenting the cheque and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honour it. I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my Social Security cheque, an arrangement which, I admit, has been in place for only eight years.

You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account $30 by way of penalty for the inconvenience caused to your bank.

My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to rethink my errant financial ways. I noticed that whereas I personally attend to your telephone calls and letters, when I try to contact you, I am confronted by the impersonal, overcharging, pre-recorded, faceless entity which your bank has become.

From now on, I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood person. My mortgage and loan payments will therefore and hereafter no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank by check, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee at your bank whom you must nominate. Be aware that it is an offence under the Postal Act for any other person to open such an envelope.

Please find attached an Application Contact Status which I require your chosen employee to complete. I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me,there is no alternative.

Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be countersigned by a Notary Public, and the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof.

In due course, I will issue your employee with a PIN number which he/she must quote in dealings with me. I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modeled it on the number of button presses required of me to access my account balance on your phone bank service. As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Let me level the playing field even further. When you call me, press buttons as follows:

  1. To make an appointment to see me.
  2. To query a missing payment.
  3. To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there.
  4. To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping.
  5. To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature.
  6. To transfer the call to my mobile phone if I am not at home.
  7. To leave a message on my computer (a password to access my computer is required. A password will be communicated to you at a later date to the Authorized Contact.)
  8. To return to the main menu and to listen to options 1 through 7.
  9. To make a general complaint or inquiry, the contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service.

While this may, on occasion, involve a lengthy wait uplifting music will play for the duration of the call.

Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement and may I wish you a happy, if ever so slightly less prosperous, New Year.

Your Humble Client

Editor’s note: This letter was allegedly sent to the bank who’s policies were being questioned. The bank manager was apparently so amused by the woman’s tenacity and cleverness that he submitted it to the New York Times who published it! Really? Regardless of the authenticity of it’s publication in the New York Times, which has not yet been substantiated, for our purposes it works just fine. Thanks to the woman who took the time to write her brilliant and I’m sure, futile letter.

Dear Dad…

May 10, 2011

Dear Dad,

I hope you enjoy the cologne and the carton of cigarettes. I thought you might like a little drink with a smoke. Have you made any new advancements in keeping leaves out of your garage? Any new drawer liners in your tool box? How’s your mother? Are you still living in her basement or have you moved upstairs yet?

Your son,

C

Just a quick line…

January 28, 2003

Dear_________,

I have dropped you a quick line to inform you that I believe you are the vilest of creatures, the kind I thought not to exist. You are a vampire in your villainy. Only your breadth of girth and the volume of your face convinces me you are not a crab from the Devil’s nether crevice. You are sick and corrupt and your deeds are shameful, not shameful like those perpetrated by Nero but much, much worse. You would steal the dying Jesus’ loincloth in spite, envious of his view from the cross, if only you could. It wouldn’t surprise me if you occasionally poisoned kittens. You are a black hole, an abyss that devours sunshine. Perhaps your kind have always existed and history was afraid to mention them for fear of eliminating all hope in the hearts of humanity. Please die. And I want my CD’s back, they’re the ones with a “C” on them.

Yours truly,

And I hate you,

C