Dear IKEA: Why are you holding my kitchen cabinets hostage? What is wrong with you people? Why do we have to take 3 days off of work in order to meet a phantom delivery that probably will never arrive? Why do you make me write long, elaborate letters to your customer service department about how I won't pay your delivery fee until SOMETHING ACTUALLY GETS DELIVERED? At this point, hell, I'll take anything. A can opener. A heart pillow that has arms to hug me with. Whatever, Ikea, just send me something, for the love of all that is holy. Dear Maurice, public works dude who, this morning, despite several loud beeps and hand gestures, still felt the need to back his giant van up into my poor Honda, which, you might remember, is just returned from 2 1/2 weeks at the body shop from an encounter with a similar jackass on Rt. 66:
I hate you and you can go to hell.
2 comments:
Aw, Ygglz and I were totally at Cardozo too, sipping tall boys wrapped in kitchen towels. Sorry we didn't see you.
whhhhaaat! we should have been on the lookout. We were at the HS, watching the Caged Bottle Rocket Death Match between all the neighborhood youthies. Nothing says independence like the brain flash of yr own imminent demise.
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