Thursday, February 21, 2008

An Open Letter to Ticketmaster

Dear Ticketmaster,

Go fuck yourself.

If I ever see you on the street, I'm going to hit you in the nads with a brick.

And then, when you call for help, I am going to ask you to decipher a bunch of random letters and numbers on a patchwork background before I let you try to get an icepack. This little methodology helps to avoid unfair use of automated calls for help. See? I'm here for the little people.

Once you finally translate my incoherent code, I'm going to make you ask for help for your swollen and painful yambags again.

And even though you want help, any help at all (you're not picky after all, because I have stomped your balls into oblivion), I'm going to tell you that I was unable to find any help at all that satisfied your request. Even though I just conducted my majestic and pulverizing assault on your lemons mere nanoseconds prior and there seems to be a lot of help available...just none for you.

Sounds absurd, doesn't it? Inconceivable even?

Of course it does.

But wait. It gets better.

Not only will I tell you that I regrettably cannot fulfill your request for help (I apologize for the inconvenience, by the way), but if you ask for help too many times, I punch you in the chops and tell you that you can't ask for help again for several minutes. How many is "several"? Well, dear Ticketmaster, that's for me to know and you to find out.

Want to know what the kicker is (besides the one I levied quickly and authoritatively to your manjunk)?

I've given help to tons of other people who don't even need help. But, I'm sure, they are willing to sell you the help you need for a price FAR above the going rate for testical restoration.

Sound fair?

So, if I see you walking down the street, Ticketmaster, prepare to cry like a eunuch and to have an eternal feeling "down there" like when you were thirteen and watched Skinemax After Dark's "Emmanuelle" marathon for so long you thought you were going to explode.

And consider us even.

For today.

But in the meantime, feel free to eat a bowl of dicks.

Love, Dim.
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