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Dear Amazon:
You know, one would think that the idea behind having a wish list – aside from making a list of stuff I want, of course – is so that when people like, say, my parents or my husband or my friend Liz are looking at the wish list and want to buy me something from it for my birthday, I won’t receive the same thing from more than one person.
And yet, for Christmas I received the exact same book from my parents and from my mother- and father-in-law. I sent back one copy of the book along with a tersely worded note letting you know that I was NOT going to be ignored, Dan charged for shipping, because this is a fuckup on Amazon’s part.
(I didn’t actually say “fuckup” in the note, but I’m sure you could tell I was thinking it.)
Like a whipped dog, y’all sent me an email telling me that I’d been issued a gift certificate in the amount of $14.19, and look! You didn’t even charge me for the cost of having the book shipped from me to you!
And then, Amazon. And then you made me sad and made me shake my head and made me take your name in vain for perhaps the six millionth time since I “discovered” you. Because for my birthday I got the same fucking book from my husband and my friend Liz.
So I’ve got to ask just what those kids in charge of the wish list software are DOING, ’cause Amazon? Someone’s asleep at the wheel, and I am getting MIGHTY FUCKING TIRED of having to package up books and send them back to you with tersely worded notes.
Knock it off, Amazon. You’re pissing me off, and you won’t LIKE me when I’m pissed off. I guarantee it, fuckers.
Love ya, mean it!
Robyn
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Dear Vinny T’s:
Your food is a-maz-ING. The Fettucine Carbonara? Heaven. The bread, served with warm olive oil? Ambrosia. The desserts? Orgasmic. But sirs, I’ve gotta tell you. That chick who was my waitress on Sunday, January 2nd was absolutely devoid of any trace of personality. And in a restaurant where the wait staff can be counted on to be extremely personable, that’s a bad, bad thing.
Still love you, though,
Robyn
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Dear JR Maxwell’s:
I am down on bended knee to ask you to marry me. Because the lobster melt on the yummy croissant is the best thing I’ve ever had in my entire life. And the chocolate peanut butter pie ain’t half bad, either.
Hugs and kisses,
The future Mrs. JR Maxwell’s.
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Dear Ben Stiller:
Please stop making those stupid freakin’ Focker movies. They suck ass.
You were great in Something About Mary, though.
Mwah!
Robyn
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Dear Philosophy:
I love, love, love the holy hell out of your
shampoo/ bath/ shower gel. You have awesome fragrances, and I’m particularly partial to the lemon meringue and strawberry milkshake. My only complaint is that all your shampoo/bath/shower gels come in huge 16-ounce sizes, and since I’m the kind of person who tires quickly of one scent, I’d love it if I could buy the 8-ounce bottles individually, instead of having to buy the set. Because I usually like one or two of the scents in the set, but not all of them. And I have a real problem buying a $30 set when I’m not going to use all the scents in the set. I also have a real problem shelling out $16 for a 16-ounce bottle of the stuff, when I know I’m going to get tired of whatever the scent is before I’ve used it up.
Hmm. What I really ought to do is buy smaller bottles and sell them on eBay. I’ll have to think about that…
Anyway, you’re awesome. You make me smell good, and I can’t complain about that!
XO,
Robyn
PS: I bought a bottle of Amazing Grace cologne, and can’t stop sniffing myself. Then I bought a bottle of Falling in Love cologne, and it’s really not my thing. Too flowery, I think. You still rock, though.
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Dear Hallmark:
Why must you tease and tempt me with your adorable knicknacks when I just don’t have the space for them? Whyyyyyy?
Smooches,
Robyn
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Dear Brad and Jennifer:
Why? Whyyyyyyyyyy? Why, Brad? Why, Jen? Whyyyyyyyyyyy? Why can’t you crazy kids just work it out?
You’ve broken my heart. I swear, if you’ve been messing around with Angelina Jolie, Brad… well, I hope you taped it, that’s all.
Brad+Jen 4-ever&ever,
Robyn
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Dear Coca Cola Company:
Just as a warning, should you ever change your Diet Coke formula or stop carrying Diet Coke altogether, there will be a hue and cry the likes of which you’ve never seen. Well, you might have seen it back when you switched the regular Coke formula from “classic” Coke to “new” Coke, and people lost their shit and were buying up all the “classic” coke they could and stockpiling it in the basement to drink sparingly for the rest of their days because you guys fucked up so very badly.
Not that I think you’ll mess with the Diet Coke formula or anything. But just in case, keep in mind that I have my eye on you and if you mess with my beloved Diet Coke, I will not rest until the people responsible for the decision are howling in agony for all the days of their lives.
Love ya!
Robyn
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Dear Publix:
When the hell are you going to put the two-liter bottles of Diet Coke on sale for 99 cents again? We stocked up the last time you had them on sale, had so many bottles in the garage we could barely get around then and get through the garage, but now we’re down to three bottles. THREE. That ain’t right, and it chaps my ass to pay $1.09 when I know if I wait long enough, I can get ’em for 99 cents each.
Put them on sale. Chop-chop!
(You’re still the best grocery store around, and that’s no lie!)
Robyn
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The sword of Stumpocles.
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Previously
2004: No entry.
2003: I swear, I have no control over my body sometimes.
2002: The shithole on Goddard Street.
2001: Lucky for her I’ve calmed down to a growling grumpiness, or it wouldn’t be a very good time to be the spud.
2000: We’re a pathetic lot, aren’t we?]]>