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O P E N L E T T E R S
T O P E O P L E O R E N T I T I E S
W H O A R E U N L I K E L Y
T O R E S P O N D .
Man, you have some good steaks. I don't know where you get those cows or
what kind of steroid hay you are feeding them, but they are sure good. They
make great presents, too, and you always make sure to add in a nice little
free gift, like a really sharp knife or a small piece of wood to cut on.
However, I do have just one small piece of constructive criticism for you:
STOP FUCKING CALLING ME! If I want to order from you again, and I might, I
can go to your website and look at all your specials. You don't need to
give me friendly reminders of your Summer Steak Blow-Out Sale every morning
as I'm trying to enjoy my coffee. See, I have family in Omaha, so whenever
your number comes up on my caller ID, I'm thinking, "Oh, I wonder why my
uncle is calling? I hope everything is OK," or, "Hey, isn't that my dead
grandmother's phone number? Is she trying to communicate with me from
beyond?" But no ... it's just you letting me know that for the next month I
can get eight special hamburger patties with every four lamb shanks I
order.
Now, I've asked you to stop calling me many times before, and to your
credit, for a while, you did. But you were also sure to send on at least one
e-mail a day letting me know that you were still around, waiting, should I
get an overwhelming urge for some bison. And now the calls have started
again. You are smothering me. Meat is supposed to be manly and strong, but
you are acting weak and needy. Please pick yourself up by the flank, brush
off those chops, and move on. I promise that I will be in touch should I
ever again start salivating over the thought of a piece of your ass, or
thigh, or lower rib area.