Let’s face it: life can be irritating, even if you’re deep, thoughtful and just finished writing a masterpiece in spite of your downstairs neighbor’s stereo. In this golden age of complaining, what would classic authors tackle next after “The End?”
Jane Austen:
“Facebook, I have not the pleasure of understanding you. There is no sense or sensibility to my newsfeed. How can I match my friends to suitable hook-ups when they keep appearing and disappearing on my Wall? Also, someone named Darcy keeps poking me. “
Herman Melville:
“Call me pissed. Some days ago, although it feels like years, I emptied the little money in my purse to your representative in the assurance I would have cable TV. I am growing grim about the mouth because it’s nearly time for Shark Week and I have no cable TV! I would have more luck launching a TV antenna toward a whale than actually seeing one of your technicians pull up the driveway.”
Dorothy Parker:
@GenericSubShop Your subs are aptly named; I wouldn’t eat one again but I wouldn’t mind it going down.
Ayn Rand:
“Who is Draconian Airlines? My recent flight was way too generous in terms of space. Why, the person next to me had nearly six square inches to himself and still managed to complain. You can’t possibly be making a profit on this, you should consider squeezing the seats together so more can fit on the plane, and quit offering such luxuries as food or entertainment. If I may be constructively critical, however, I would request you not fly during the twilight hours. I hate the twilight.”
Edgar Allan Poe:
“To the cur who lives beneath me: turn down your stereo, especially in the evening hours. The bass pounds my living quarters so loudly, it’s as if I harbor a giant, beating heart under the floorboards every night. Do this, and I will instruct my raven to stop stealing your mail, although I must say he now has a fondness for your Victoria’s Secret catalogues.
Nathaniel Hawthorne:
“Dear Contractor: I must insist you return to fix this abode immediately! Houses should have seven gables, not sixteen. Currently my residence looks like a gathering of tall men in amusing hats, not the serious and sober place it should be. Knock off some of these gables or I shall make you wear a large, red letter “A,” arseface.”
Washington Irving:
“Your inattentive employee mistakenly presented me with decaf coffee this morning, making this a very sleepy hollow indeed! When I ride my horse through your drive-thru, I expect to receive a fully caffeinated beverage. Why, I’d lose my head without my morning java.”
Agatha Christie:
“Attention, postmaster: Where did my package go? It is a mystery. I ordered three items to be delivered, and then there were none. Orient yourself to the Express service!”
John Steinbeck:
“I am highly disappointed with your wine, which I paired with a roguish dish of flat tortillas. The merlot was not robust or powerful! These are not the grapes of wrath, they were grapes that were only mildly inconvenienced.”
