Fuck off. Seriously, don’t you have better things to do with your life than chew up 30 minutes of my time (that’s $5 you owe the newspaper I work for, incidentally) arguing with me over my job?
I’m the Letter formatter. I am the one who formats the letters, types them in when they come in hardcopy, and confirms them. What does that mean? That means I have to call Every. Single. Person. Who. Writes. A. Letter and make sure they’re not using a fake name and they actually wrote the letter.
You know, there may be some vast media cover-up going on in the country. Honestly, I have better shit to worry about than tossing out letters to the editor about the mayor, whom I hate. I, and apparently most of the town, don’t give a shit that he got arrested for drunk driving for being .01 over the legal limit (the equivalent of having something like a half a beer too much…easy mistake to make, IMO) I’m honest to God telling you the truth that I got a total of about 10 letters on the subject, and half off them I was unable to verify and therefore could not publish. If you choose not to believe me, fine, but do not, under any circumstances, insult me by assuming that I am lying to you, or that I am taking part in the vaaaaast cover-up of the LOCAL NEWSPAPER, or that just because I’m a young’n I’m fucking retarded. No, fuck you.
And I hope you feel so good about yourself, lady, because not only was I extremely polite to you (“Ma’am, if this is going to degrade to you insulting my intelligence, I certainly have better things to do with the time the Appeal is paying me for than talk to you about how to do the job I have been doing competently for well over a year. Have a nice day!” click) but because of the way you treated me, my boss, the editor, has blacklisted you from ever writing a Letter to the Editor, posting a message on our Web site, or basically having anything to do with the involvement of our paper - because honestly, lady, if you’re going to fight sugar with fire, at least don’t sound like a raving lunatic while you do it. And don’t you dare pull that “The customer is always right” bullshit with me, because it is, indeed, bullshit. We’re a newspaper, not Del Taco.
Really, how stupid are you? You’re lucky you dealt with someone who has something resembling sanity; if I were just a little more homicidal you’d be dead, because you stupidly told me that you send in your physical address with every Letter to the Editor that you write. Nice. Now I know your full name, address and phone number. You’re lucky I have something resembling morals, too, because if I were any less scrupulous, all I’d need to do is some very easy lookup and subterfuge, and I could steal your entire retirement pension a 'la identity theft. You’re lucky, ma’am, that you got me and not some other people in the newsroom who would have no problem fucking your life up.
That said, I’m going to reiterate: Why the fuck do you bother with this shit? It’s a small-town, three-section local newspaper, for fucks sake! Do you really have that little of a life that you have to harass an underpaid lowly newsroom clerk for thirty minutes?
If so, then I pity you. No wonder your husband left you, you old harpy (and really, I could have done without the ten-minute diatribe on how all men are evil because your husband left you 20 years ago, but you’re a good Catholic so you refuse to sign the divorce papers, but he went under you because it’s Nevada, herald of all sin!). Please, just do the world a favor and either stop talking, or meet your maker.
I can’t wait to write your obituary. (God, I wish I’d said that.)
~Tasha