Dear Mr. Factory
Historical note: This isn’t the first Dear Mr. Corporation letter, but it is the first that is still extant. It’s also the first (out of two) that was sent by email, instead of the postal service. I’ve gotten better since this email — I don’t think it’s very good, though I did get coupons out of it — and I’m mostly including this one for completeness’ sake.
Dear Mr. Factory,
I am a consumer located in Portland, Oregon, where we take our food seriously. Very seriously. Even our salty garbage junk food. Trust me, we *really* care about our garbage food.
Believe you me, if I were to cart food from Portland to Manhattan, it wouldn’t be your terrible mass market pretzel chips. But as it turns out, your chips do indeed, generally, fulfill a primal need for both salt and simultaneously crunchy.
So I went to my sister’s 11th story walkup after having purchased a presumably delicious and satisfying package of your “crisps” for Our Snacking Enjoyment. While I was recovering my breath, my sainted stepfather — needing a satisfying and also salty yet convenient crunch — tore open that package of your, as it were, factored snacks, at which point the apartment, small though it was, was assaulted, may, terrorized by the unmistakable stench of stale-ass bullshit flour treats. And sir, let it be said, we in Manhattan know our terrorism.
We assumed it was something we did wrong. We consulted google, Facebook, Instagram: everyone said “just eat them dumbass. If they suck maybe they were old.” Lo, we checked the expiry date and it’s in mid-2018! How could this be?
Mr. Factory, I implore you. Our Christmas has been ruined as surely as if we’d bought a tree infested with rare Bolivian Riverside Terrace Beetles, known for devouring ex-Trump properties with the voraciousness of an Amazonian pirhana. We beg of you, please save our Christmas that you have accidentally yet irrevocably ruined, it might be our sainted stepfather’s last and these fucking pretzels sucked balls.
Sincerely,
Alex
[Originally Published 12/25/2017]