Monday, March 06, 2006

I Gripe, Therefore I... Am

My G-Mail. My beautiful G-Mail. Ruined. And by whom? Well, CEO Tom Blister hinted at it recently. Yes. It was the New Yorker.

I am not afraid to air my complaints here. Cross me and you will feel the cold steel of my... let me back up a second...

We moved in September, 2005, and our New Yorkers weren't forwarded. Listen, I don't even read the New Yorker. It was more for Erika. Yes, she thinks I'm a big snob _ writing this isn't going to help my image in that regard.

I contacted the New Yorker customer service department, and they corrected the error. We now receive the magazine at our new address. BUT, not long after my correspondence, I began receiving spam e-mail in my G-Mail account... once a junk-free oasis amid the desert of penis enlargement and discount drug messages.

Can you believe that? The bastards. They could at least send me the William Shawn coaster set for my trouble. I have 1-6, but I'm missing no. 7: "Mr. Shawn discusses John Hersey contract at Tavern on the Green."

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