Dear Extended Warranty Protection Plan,
Upon paying for a new television yesterday, you attempted to surreptitiously prostitute yourself into my purchase.
Maybe people who wear pant suits and go to the dentist regularly and put warranty receipts into appropriately named sections of accordion folders residing in the second drawer down on the left, purchase The Extended Warranty Protection Plan. These people have no problems remembering, 3 years later when their shit breaks, that the receipt for The Extended Warranty Protection Plan is in the WARRANTY section of the accordion folder, right behind VACATIONS, before FOX MULDER, in the second drawer down on the left. These people can actually remember that they purchased The Extended Warranty Protection Plan in the first place. They have the patience and determination necessary to then handle the tedious Extended Warranty process, involving frustrating phone calls, affixing proper postage, mailing original receipts and driving around to return and replace their broken shit.
I am not one of those people.
After just shelling out a substantial amount of cash for a brand new TV, in my mind, you are nothing more than a clandestine attempt of a promise. I might as well make origami out of my money and send it down the river.
I do have an accordion folder, but I cannot tell you what’s in it, because the last time I opened it was about 4 years ago when I thought it was about time to become someone who had accordion folders. I also have a second drawer down on the left. It is currently filled with a bag of old Christmas lights, stacks of random papers that I thought were important enough to toss in there, a child’s coat hanger, a tangle of random cords to old devices, and a box of old checks from 4 houses ago.
It is quite enough for me to remember when the science project is due, to feed the dog, pack the lunches, and apply deodorant. Remembering in the first place that I had purchased The Extended Warranty Protection Plan, and on the improbable assumption that I did, driving myself crazy tearing the house apart looking for a slip of paper that I have the same likelihood of finding as Aretha Franklin has of finding her own vagina.
So I thank you for your offer to further protect my television, but I must decline due to the fact that I don’t own a pant suit and have not been to the dentist in 3 years.
*10 extra credit points if you got the Fox Mulder reference.
Categories: Open Letters