Dear Steve Jobs,
When I saw the ads for the new iPhones I was very excited. Finally the iPhone was coming to Canada and I was planning to be one of the first in line to purchase one. I told all my friends and family that I was the proud future owner of an iPhone and how great it was going to be being able to go online and check really important things like facebook and Perez Hilton whenever I wanted.
Finally July 11th rolled by and I went to my local Rogers store so I could buy the reincarnation of God in a phone. I was aware that the phone was a bit on the pricey side despite the fact that you were purchasing it on a three-year plan but I had saved up especially for this very occasion. (What I did for that money I am under a strict contract which states that I cannot discuss it…not for my sake but for the sake of the public…it was really dirty).
I talk to the Asian guy at the counter, (not that it matters that he’s Asian, but I’m just stating that to enforce the fact that he knew what he was talking about…because you know, Asians are usually smart.) So Asian dude explained to me about the monthly plans. I was shocked…no beyond shocked to learn that the minimum amount a plan cost after taxes and system access fees was over $70 a month. And with that you could check like half an email. I told Asian dude that I did not need a data plan, from what I heard the GOD phone had Wifi so I could just use the internet on it at home, or in a Starbucks, or while driving up to other people’s homes and steal their unsecured internet signals. He said that he would HIGHLY recommend getting a data plan because if you didn’t and you accessed the internet using the Edge network by accident it could cost you thousands of dollars a month. Well I barely make $200 a month (again, I’m not allowed to disclose the nature of my job for the public’s own safety and state of nausea). I pleaded with him to remove the ability of data on my phone or put me in touch with someone who could do this but he said that it was just not possible.
Now, Mr. Jobs, this is when I really had to think…should I forgo my basic needs like food and water so I could get an iPhone? My heart was saying yes but my head was saying no. So, I sadly left the Rogers Store without an iPhone. I cried for a few days but then I realized I was so much better without your sad excuse for a piece of fancy, modern, ultra-chic, trying-too-hard technology. Yes, Mr. Jobs, I became bitter. Greatly so. So much so that it has taken me months to get over the fact that I could not afford to get an iPhone and that is why I did not write this letter sooner.
I am glad I did though. I want to tell you what a piece of crap I think the iPhone is. Because of it’s “touch screen innovated lots of big expensive words whatever” it leaves more scratches than on a hemophiliac who's recovered from a simple fall. It also loses battery really quickly and it's important to me to be able to listen to my “Best of the Bee Gees” album…but then again the Bee Gees were so super fly they could kill any battery with their smooth sounds. Also, EVERYONE has one nowadays so you really don’t look that cool with one anymore. It’s not like we have to travel to Buffalo to get one or anything. We can go to like the local strip mall and pick one up. Wow, so many bad things about the iPhone, too many to name.
I’ll do you a favour though Steve Jobs. I’ll let you make it up the fact that you disappointed me with your product. You can send me a free iPhone with free unlimited life service (voice, data, text, voicemail, My Five plans) and I will reconsider the iPhone. I can’t make any promises that I will change my mind but there is a possibility I won’t be as unimpressed as I currently am.
Thank-you for your time and I expect a response very soon,
Sincerely,
Jackie Marculescu
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Hasbro Turned My Daughter Into An Ungrateful Brat
Dear Hasbro,
My name is Sarah Bertrand and I am 25. I am writing a letter of apology, for the board game that your company has spawned.
I'm "sorry" I ever purchased your desperate and unsuccessful grasp at proving you're still a legitimate source of quality entertainment for the gaming community; the board game, "Sorry".
Your commercial was a perfect example of everything that is wrong with this world today. It depicts a brat unabashedly demoralizing her family in her quest for victory. Even though I was appalled when I witnessed, this, I never thought I would have to worry about this venomous inexcusable behavior from my daughter. So, somewhat hesitantly, I conceded against my better judgment. Allow me to set the scene for you, Hasbro. It's Friday night. I'm a single mother, home alone with my seven year old daughter Apple. I bring home a new game that I purchased at the local Wal Mart to surprise my daughter, and explain the regulations, and we commence playing. She informs me she's already seen a commercial for said board game, and knows how it works. I'm caught off guard, but not concerned because I know I raised my daughter right.
Long story short, my daughter began beating me at the game, knocked my gaming piece off my square and back a significant amount, looked at me with a smug grin, and sarcastically spat at me, "Sorry!" while rolling her eyes.
I was shocked. Mortified even. I threw the board off of the table, started spinning around and sobbing, and grounded my daughter until her birthday. In 2032. Now Hasbro, since up until that point I had only had a few drinks that night, I know I did not overreact. I believe that "Sorry" is singlehandedly responsible for teaching kids disrespect, belittling their elders, the recent collapse of the economy, and ruining the genuine and sincere foundation Canadian families have fought so hard to create in this day and age.
It made me question what kind of a mother I had been thus far if Apple could bring herself to speak to me in such a way, and more so than anything else, it made me really want to give her something to be really "sorry" about. She hates to lose.. almost as much as I hate when my glass is empty, if you catch my drift. And in the end, when I broke that board game over my knee screamed at her that Santa wasn't real, everyone lost in my household, Mr. Hasbro. Everyone.
Hasbro, I'm sorry I ever purchased the game, sorry I ever ruined family time with this unimaginative tool of the devil, and I demand retribution.
I have enrolled myself in 12 weeks of parenting classes, at $300 per class, to see where it was that I went wrong. I believe it's necessary, and I am sure you'll find no issue with covering the cost. I also would appreciate a letter of apology to myself and Apple, $29.95 plus applicable taxes for the cost of the game that I had to burn in a cleansing ritual in my backyard, and a recommendation for a new, more genuine and less hurtful game. Something that preferably includes dinosaurs, and or bright colors and a thimble.
Thank you for your time and consideration, and I look forward to hearing from your representatives soon. "Sorry" if this was ill received; it was not my intention to ruffle feathers. I'm just a lonely, competitive, simple woman who has a fear of losing; games, money, or the respect of her family.
Sincerely,
Sarah Bertrand
Maybelline Turned Me Into A Whore
Maybelline Headquarters
10017-2422, United States
(212) 818-1500
Dear Maybelline,
My name is Jackie Marculescu and I am a 20-year-old woman who enjoys lukewarm bubble baths, watching kids fall in yellow snow, and wearing make-up.
I was recently feeling a little "down in the dumps". It was pretty bad. The Prozac I usually O.D. on wasn't having its effect anymore. I think I may have become immune to it from taking it so often. Since, as previously mentioned, I enjoy wearing make-up amongst many other exhilarating hobbies I decided to buy one of your lip glosses to cheer me up.
I walked into my local Shopper's Drug Mart and ran right over to the make-up section. I immediately knew I wanted something from your company, Maybelline, because I didn't feel like being "Easy, Breezy, Beautiful…Cover Girl". Not if that meant I would turn out looking like Queen Latifah.
I wanted to look more like Sarah Michelle Geller, or "Buffy" as I affectionately remember her. I didn't necessarily want to kick Vampire butt but just attract someone like Freddie Prinze Jr.
I was mulling over which lip-gloss to get (lip-gloss screams "I'm young and fun and flirty", oppose to lip stick which says "I'm old and if I don't already have a husband I need to find one now so I can have babies because my internal clock is ticking away.")
I finally decided to go with the colour "Cherry Drizzle". I thought this was a good choice because it just confirmed my lip-gloss is fun idea with the name of a fruit in the title of the gloss.
I went over to the cashier, paid for the makeup with my Shopper's Optimum points and skipped home.
As soon as I got through my front door I ran to the bathroom, opened up the packaging to my “Cherry Drizzle” lip gloss and slathered it on. It was red, but not too red and had just the right amount of sparkle in it. I immediately felt better! This was a way quicker fix than any meds, legal or illegal, I’ve ever taken. I decided that I wanted to go out with some friends since I was feeling so good. I called up my best friends Janine and Garofalo and we planned to meet at a really classy bar called “The Spread Eagle.”
Once there and wearing my new Maybelline lip gloss and cheetah print mini dress I sashayed past the slew of men at the bar. They were all staring at me and I felt very good about myself. I knew it must be the liquid sexiness on my lips. I then found my friends and sat down next to them. They had a complete look of shock on their faces and I thought they were impressed by my look! Little did I know, I was very wrong.
Janine immediately threw a napkin, emblazed with the “Spread Eagle” logo at me and said, (and I quote) “Remove that whore lipstick off your face.”
I was shocked! Here I thought I looked amazing. I also was angry that Janine thought I was wearing lipstick when I so specifically sought out lip gloss. I asked her what she meant and she told me, “You look like a single mother who just met with their kids’ principle and found out that her son is going to get kicked out of the school and when you tried to seduce the principle with sexual favors he told you that he’s not interested in drag queens.”
Garofalo just nodded in silent amazement.
I told them, “But this is Maybelline! This is the highest quality drug store make-up you can get after Revlon! They had a vampire slayer work for them for goodness’ sake!”
“Well it definitely doesn’t make you look like it’s Maybelline, and more like you’re born with it...with a defect.”
I didn’t want to argue with them, after all I had known Janine and Garofalo for a very long time and trusted their advice.
I then removed the “Cherry Drizzle” lip gloss off my lips and instantly sulked back into my depression.
So Maybelline, I am not asking for a refund for the lip gloss, simply for all the money I will need on meds now due to your less than stellar product.
Sincerely,
Jackie Marculescu
Complaint to the Royal Ontario Musuem
To Whom It May Concern:
My name is Sarah Bertrand, and I'm a fragile yet determined woman with a destiny that involved dinosaurs. Discovering them again, taming them, and one day writing a major motion picture that involves them somehow. Since it's never been done before, I'm working on copy writing a name...so far, I'm thinking, Sarah Bertrand Park. Or, The Jurassic Adventures of Sarah Bertrand. In A Park.
Anyhow, the real reason I'm writing you this letter is to bring your attention to an issue that has been plaguing me for countless, sleepless hours. Last night I decided to combat the monotony of my life, I was going to venture to the Royal Ontario Museum for a magical and educational experience. I was shocked, dismayed, disgusted, appalled, and truly heartbroken at what a lunch bag letdown the experience truly was. I left feeling dejected, melancholy, embarrassed, bamboozled, and defeated, for the Royal Ontario Museum's sub par renovations did not justify the inflated prices. My acquaintance Nadia Umadat and I had a query regarding the current status on the Royal Ontario Museum's Planetarium, and we asked staff at The Royal Ontario Museum and we were laughed at, and I truly feel in the cockles of my heart that we were mocked. We were also told The Planetarium was to be destroyed in the near future because the Royal Ontario Museum could not keep up with the Science Center, so needless to say as a result of that new found information I was left feeling bewildered, discombobulated, distressed, and flustered. I sobbed for hours until I came to the conclusion that this was completely unacceptable, and as a patron to the Royal Ontario Museum for years, I would appreciate if this situation is immediately rectified. I would expect nothing less than a written apology from the esteemed Board of Directors, and compensation for my $11 ticket I purchased last night. If the Royal Ontario Museum has a time machine housed in the basement I'd also appreciate if you could give me back the time I meandered away last night that could have been spent doing other more productive things. Like scavenging for dinosaur remnants, sorting through old stamps, finding new concoctions to use in my sandwich maker, or shuffling down the street, whistling, and listening to my Walk-Man.
I am sure this letter will be received and treated with all the legitimacy and genuine concern of a lady with big dreams and a broken heart. Thank you for your time. I look forward to a response.
Sincerely,
Sarah "The Dinosaur Whisperer, Probably" Bertrand
My Complaint of Mattel's Magic 8 Ball...it ain't that magic.
Mattel, Inc.
tel #: 310-252-2000
Dear Mattel,
My name is Jackie Marculescu and I am a 20-year-old journalist, writer and all-things-psychic enthusiast.
Ever since I was a little girl I have wanted to know how my future would pan out. Would I be rich? Would I be famous? Would I be rich and famous? Or maybe I would just marry some rich old dude...I'd be content with that too. I wanted to know what would happen to me and if I would have to work hard and earn my gratifyingly luxurious lifestyle or if it would just be handed to me...sort of like magic.
I had tried many psychic endeavors, everything from palm reading to tarot card spreads to getting naked and having my photo taken (the psychic said that was one of the best ways to tell someone's future...they never mentioned finding the photos on a fetish site the next week).
Recently I decided to put faith in one of your most famous and fun toys (next to that slut Barbie of course...I always thought she received more credit than she deserved).I figured this would be a cheap, non-naked way to find out where my life will take me.
I carefully read the instructions on the packaging. While doing this I also noticed the Magic 8 Ball was made in
The instructions say to think of your question, ask it out loud and then shake the Magic 8 Ball while concentrating on the query at hand. I did just that. I thought to myself, "Magic 8 Ball, will I be rich, famous and loved like Oprah (only hot) and will I have to do anything to get that or can I just sit on my ass and watch the cash flow in?" I concentrated harder than I've ever concentrated on anything before in my life and shook that 8 Ball...shook it hard. Finally I look down to see what my future will hold. I look down to see if I will become someone, someone important and influential, someone who the next campaigners for presidency will fight over for their support. So I look down and you know what the Magic 8 Ball says? "Focus and ask again." Focus? FOCUS? I WAS focusing! I was focusing on how filthy, stinking rich I was going to be so how could this piece of crap tell me I should FOCUS and try again?
Since I'm not one to question judgment, I popped a Valium or two, or five and did what the Magic 8 Ball said and tried again. This time I concentrated even harder. I thought of all the mojitos I would be sipping on my
"No".
Not even, "signs point to no", or "my indications say not today" but just a plain and simple "No".
This is when I got angry. I did everything Mattel told me to do and still I got nothing out of the deal. Does Mattel enjoy crushing people's dreams? Do they know that most people who play this game are children? Do they know that these children rely on this Ball to reassure them that their dreams will come true? What if some kid in
The Magic 8 Ball ruins dreams, it crushes hopes, and it instills fear into young, impressionable minds that they won't have food to eat, or more importantly, will not become rich like Oprah and hot like Jessica Alba. Mattel needs to apologize for this sick joke they call a "fun toy" and recall all of the Magic 8 Balls. Then they need to burn them all. And finally they need to pay for therapy for all those traumatized children.
Sincerely,
Jackie Marculescu
P.S. This is the last time I put the fate my of future into balls.
A Letter to the Producer of The Haunting of Molly Hartley
Dear Liddell Entertainment, more specifically, Mickey Liddell,
My name is Sarah Bertrand, and I'm a 25 year old with a zest for life and a passion for spooky shenanigans. I took my boyfriend to see your heinous and ungodly attention seeking transparent money hungry attempt at wooing the fright seeking Halloween crowd, and if it wasn't for the delicious mouthfuls of popcorn I was consuming until the bitter end, I believe I would have given up in my smelly movie theater chair two rows from the front of the screen, and ended my life where I sat at an awkward angle.
You see, Mr. Liddell, the synopsis of the movie had such potential. It had mystique, creativity, the morbid fascination factor. On a more intimate note, I related to it on a personal level, because when I was born, I too died on the bathroom floor, and my parents too did make a pact with the Devil, where he would consume my soul for all of eternity to do his bidding, at the tender age of 18. Mr. Liddell, this is a story close to my heart, and although I appreciate your attempt at portraying it on the big screen, I think that there could have been better preparation and more attention to detail. For example, my name is not Molly Hartley. It's Sarah Bertrand, as stated above. Also, my house did not look like that, I never dated Chace Crawford, and my mother never tried to stab me with a pair of scissors; she tried to scare the Devil out of me by hiding in the pantry, and jumping out screaming, and bursting a balloon in my face. I didn't talk to her for three days, and needless to say I didn't die of fright, but I know that she really loves me, and I appreciate the fact that she tried to save me from my inevitable fate. Putting that aside, Robert Hartley was a great father who you could tell really loved his daughter, but he was over it pretty quickly when Molly was responsible for her mother plummeting over the banister to her death, landing on a pair of scissors that pierced her heart. Which not only makes me question Robert's morals, but also the laws of physics.
Mr. Liddell, I am a bright, punctual, salacious, classy broad that enjoys thought provoking cinematic experiences that enrich my life in some way, whether it's through an emotional journey, an inspirational song someone performs, or me slipping my delicate yet sticky fingers into the ladies' purse next to me and taking all the hard earned money I can grab.
Mr. Liddell, you are not the only one to blame. John Travis clearly panicked during the last twenty five minutes of production because he drew a blank as to how he could end this bumbling bijou, and decided that the best thing to do would to take a character we had sympathized with the entire film, who was kind, and who made me want to nurture her and cradle her to my bosom and tell her everything was going to be ok, that those horrible visions of her mother would cease and she'd eventually stop getting locked in her bathroom and have the water stop running by itself and stop hearing those voices that called her name and stop getting nose bleeds and stop having panic attacks... *inhales deeply* and turn her into a raging insensitive brutish nincompoop harlot. I was down in the dumps, and one might say lost in a blue funk. My heart was heavy, with sadness and with guilt, wondering what I could have done more to prevent Molly from spiralling into the demonic abyss that inevitably became her fate.
Personal feelings aside, we need to discuss retribution. I'd appreciate $12.00 for the ticket I purchased, as well as $11.95 for the combo I needed to calm my nerves, and cure my boredom. I also had hoped that this went without saying, but I expect that as noble expression to the importance of your fans, fickle and otherwise, I'd have a major motion picture created based on my life as an aspiring journalist/poltergeist, and we could call it, The Jurassic Adventures of Sarah Bertrand. In A Park. We could find Jeff Goldblum to be my romantic interest, and Sarah Michelle Gellar could dress up like a dinosaur. I'd like to convene and discuss further business. Thank you for your time, and I look forward to hearing back from you personally.
Sincerely,
Sarah Bertrand
P.S. If you find this letter offensive, I apologize; it is not my intention. I only want justice for myself and my hard earned penny. I beg you to remember, the Devil promised to venture to Scarborough to possess my soul when I turned 18.. I am now 25. You do the math.
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