On things left unsaid

Drifting off to sleep last night, at an hour most reasonable humans wouldn’t even be thinking about being in bed yet, I made a terrible mistake and checked my work email for some reason.  The email I received pissed me off enough that it took a full two hours to actually fall asleep.

This is not the email response I sent this morning.


b8ab1889e9a600a5675fc0a5062aca0e.jpgDear assholes:

It took me four days of work, six emails, several phone calls back and forth both to you and to my store, and at least one visit to work on what was supposed to be my day off to get you to come in and spend some fucking money on some fucking furniture.  During this entire process you repeatedly emphasized that you had sold your previous furniture and had an empty room with nothing to sit on.  I should have realized that this poor decision on your part was an indicator that you are dumb people who make stupid fucking decisions and handed you off to someone else.  But no!  I persevered, because 5% of $4000 is $200, and that’s a couple of credit card bills paid for the month.

Last night you sent me an email berating me because I had “guaranteed” that your furniture would be in your house in two weeks and when you called and scheduled your delivery today it was on the 19th, two weeks and three days after you purchased.

Lemme be clear here:  Youse a buncha lyin sonsabitches, and I’mma cancel your fucking furniture order and let you stare at some fucking bare walls where a sectional ought to be and a bare floor where you wanted a rug, because I’ll set $200 on fire before I let you fucking pricks get away with calling me a liar.

I tell every single motherfucker who buys from me the same exact fucking thing.  I say it so many times every day that it’s a programmed phrase: your shit will get here within two fucking weeks, and if you want it delivered it’ll probably take another week or so after that.  Every.  Single.  Motherfucker. Wanna know why?  Because it’s fucking true, and because I don’t make my fucking measly 5% on your shit until it is in your house.

Yeah.  Not on sale.  I don’t make shit from a sale.  I make money on delivery, which means I don’t get paid for your furniture sale until you have your furniture.  So there’s no fucking point in lying to any fucker about when their shit will arrive, because guess what?  Motherfuckers notice when they have no shit if they are expecting shit, and I have neither the time nor the energy nor the inclination to spend every fucking moment at work dodging phone calls from angry motherfuckers wanting to know where their shit is.  I know for a fucking fact that I didn’t guarantee you your shit would be in your house in two weeks because 1) it wouldn’t and 2) I never ever ever ever ever use the word guarantee to anyone, ever.

We had a bunch of fucking furniture stolen by pirates last year.  Motherfucking pirates.  That’s not a joke.  It’s fucking true, and some poor fucker had to call his fucking customers and tell them that they weren’t getting their leather sectional for two fucking months because a bunch of half-starved illiterate fucking Somalis with AK-47s and a couple of RPGs stole it.

So fuck you.  I didn’t guarantee you shit, and I sure as hell didn’t tell you your shit would be in your house in two weeks, because it would have led to this exact fucking conversation we’re having right now, only instead of you being a liar trying to extort another discount from me you would be right.  And I’m not having that.

I repeat: fuck you.  Take your shit in two weeks and three days, come pick it up your damn selves, or cancel your order and I will turn around and sell your shit to someone else.  I give no fucks which option you choose.

Oh, and this party you have scheduled for the 16th, which is exactly two weeks from the date where you made the purchase?  First of all, that’s fucking Monday, and it’s Martin Luther King Day, and no fucking pair of white-ass white people are having a fucking party on a Monday on MLK day.  I call bullshit.  Second, this would be another example of you making bad fucking decisions.  I don’t feel bad about it at all.  If you weren’t lying about the party– and you are— you would be idiots, because shit happens, and even if I’d guaranteed some shit would be in your house, it’s possible that other shit would prevent that shit from being true and your party would still suck.  Go rent some fucking folding chairs; you can’t fit more than five people on the fucking sectional you ordered anyway, goddammit.

Have I said fuck you yet?  Because fuck you.

Love,

Luther

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