Dear Primus Canada,
In the recent past I ordered a high-speed Internet line, ostensibly provided by you Primus Canada, to be installed in my abode. And installed it was, with no fuss or muss. A friendly technician arrived in two days’ time and set up the coaxial cable feed with both alacrity and ease. Responding to my query as to when the cable modem would arrive so I could use my fresh and new internet line, the smiling technician (leaving with some haste, I might add, obviously looking forward to an evening of not working for Primus) stated said crucial device would show up in a few days.
It’s been over SIX WEEKS NOW, Primus, and the thrice-damn’d cable modem has not arrived. Or should I say, thrice-plus-one damn’d modem since a) I’ve called your various and confusing help desks “run” by various and confused employees FOUR TIMES now and, b) I don’t know the word for what comes after “thrice”.
On top of calling you by phone, I’ve sent e-mails to your, uh, “organization” pleading for my cable modem. No response, of course. I suspect your e-mail manager is actually a skeleton in a shirt and a tie sitting in front of a cobwebbed computer from 1996 still running Windows 95 which has been displaying a grey box asking for the address of your POP3 server located on the token-ring network for nearly two decades.
Hell, I’ve even made a post on your Facebook Primus page, to which I will not link because I’m frankly tired of doing pointless things. I had enough of that after going to college and using valuable broadcast equipment to videotape gophers running across the 401 highway. Well, maybe not so pointless, since the gophers who were annihilated by the passing cold and uncaring Grim Reaper-like traffic have actually gotten further to acquiring a cable modem than I currently have from your corporation.
As I type this polite and respectful letter to you, oh gibbering primates of Primus, my cable modem line pleads silently to me to fulfill its function. It is as a grey and near-leafless tree branch in the depths of winter, cold and despairing for a summer that will never arrive while tiny snow termites gnaw away at the dying quick within it.
Despairing of ever entering the sweet round crevice of a sexy female coaxial plug, my cable modem line juts out with no purpose whatsoever, as unto offering a handshake to the Venus De Milo.
It dangles out of my wall like the penis of a castrated 19th century Castrato opera singer, shrieking out impossibly high-notes of want and desire while being completely useless.
I guess what I’m trying to say here, Primus, is WHERE IN THE SWEET NAME OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY IS MY PROMISED CABLE MODEM? Sorry for yelling everyone but MY GOD WHY PRIMUS WHY? Oh, sure, I’ve been getting your BILLS asking me for PAYMENT for your, uh, “service”. Oh, YES INDEEDILY-FUCKING-DOODILY your requests for payment have had NO PROBLEM WHATSOEVER finding their demonic way into my mailbox like demonic, E-coli-bearing flatworms invading the lower colons of all hapless bastards who dare to swim in any beach located within ten miles of Ottawa.
I literally do not know what to do anymore with you, Primus. Every action I attempt to communicate with you is met with, at best, empty promises and indifferent silence. I get a better response swearing at my cat, Steve, whom merely gazes up at me and wonders why the food-bringer is being so noisy at it for pissing on my newly upholstered ottoman.
(Wait, what the hell is an “ottoman”? And why the HELL am I asking YOU, Primus?!?)
Before I go, here’s a quick true story from my past just for you, my Primus pals, that I’ve never shared with anyone else. Back in the day when I enjoyed drinking vast amounts of alcohol as both a hobby and scientific study, one evening after hitting the bars with my buddy Dave he drunkenly dared me to wave a large rubber penis at traffic. (To this day I’m not sure where he got hold of said imposing, nine-inch long marital aid – I suspect he had a pretty freaky girlfriend).
Outside his creepy apartment on Somerset Street, as I waved and shook that horrible rubber penis at the passing cars bearing startled and staring drivers and children, I reflected on the sheer pointlessness of my stupid act. But now I realize that this horrible deed I performed did actually have a point, since I’d would have had a better chance of someone walking up to me and saying, “I see you’re waving a huge dildo at passing motorists, here’s a cable modem” than ever getting one from the daydreaming, ceiling-staring folk at PRIMUS.
Thank you for reading and considering this inquiry, Primus representatives. I hope this kind, caring letter finds you in good health as you’re all stuffing chocolate eclairs down your throats while discussing last night’s episode of “Cheating Spouses” rather than, y’know, actually working on finding out what weird stranger’s mail slot my cable modem has been shoved into with enough Herculean force to remove it from this frame of reality.
Your Pal in Jesus,
‘Cause only He knows where my cable modem is,