Dear Omaha Steaks,
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.