Lincoln TrudeauMY ADDRESSMY CITY, PROVINCEMY COUNTRY/POSTAL CODEMonday, Sept. 18, 1995Wayne Ellwood, Co-editor
c/o New Internationalist Magazine
P.O. Box 30000 STN BRM B
Markham, Ontario
M7Y 7A2
Dear Mr. Ellwood,
Less than a week ago, I opened my mailbox, expecting to find some personal mail from someone very close to me. Instead, I found the letter you sent me about New Internationalist Magazine. Enhh....close enough, I reckon.
So I sifted through the contents of this envelope you sent me (no doubt endorsed with your fondest wishes) and happened upon a PERSONAL letter from you (my heart simply melted), a subscription offer and two post cards that are exactly the same.
Those post cards, while identical, are a treat to look at -- the ones with a bunch of monks in loud orange robes with no hair, praying in front of a gigantic gold boulder with absolutely no graffiti on it whatsoever. Those monks look a little bored, mind you, but otherwise, a beautiful piece of photography.
The back of the post card says the rock is covered with pure gold leaf (from the gold tree, is it?), and is said to be supported by a hair from Buddha and thus will never fall. Very well.
On to the letter...you begin by saying, "Dear friend." Mr. Ellwood -- may I call you Wayne? Anyways, Wayne...I'm most flattered for being considered a friend already, but do you think this wise? I mean, usually before I call someone a friend, I at the very least shake their hand and introduce myself -- we've yet to do that. For all you know, I could be a serial killer -- I bet Jeff Dahmer was called a "friend" many a time by unwitting dupes in charge of junk mail.
Maybe if you met me, you'd change your mind about being my friend. You might in fact discover we have totally different interests and decide to be a casual acquaintance. Or who knows -- we might become the best of friends and go white-water rafting in Mexico and take down Columbian drug lords in our quest for world harmony. The future is never certain, after all.
You tell me in your letter that you have sent me one post card and to entice me into subscribing, you say you'll send me five more post cards immediately if I do. But you haven't thought of who I should send these post cards to. As my friend, Wayne, you should be able to help me plan my life a little better. I can't just take five post cards and let them rot and decay, never knowing who to send them too -- I'll develop ulcers for sure. Oh, is that what friends are for? How considerate.
You then ask me if I feel confused and saddened by media reports of violence in Bosnia, Rwanda and Somalia. Well yes I am. And I understand completely how subscribing to your magazine will magically whisk away my worries -- I assume your mag has hallucinogenic properties...quite innovative, Wayne-meister.
You talk about all kinds of beautiful photographs like the one on the postcard...well now I'm just lost with your logic. You address my confusion with the situations in Bosnia and Rwanda...and then you send me a picture of a bunch of balding freaks in orange robes looking at a gargantuan golden rock. With all the problems in the world going on, I didn't think the plight of the Great Gold Rock Suspended By A Buddha Follicle would take precedence over these other things. Apparently I'm mistaken.
You say if I'm not completely satisfied with my subscription, I'll get a full refund. That's great...but answer me this: supposing I'm only half-satisfied. Do I then get half my money back? What if I'm 90% satisfied? Can I yank out the 10% of pages I am not pleased with and receive compensation for those inferior pages? The economy's a bitch, Wayne -- value is very important to me.
And I can get a complete refund "at any time"? What if when I turn 75 and am living on cat food, I decide I want some cheese additives to supplement my cat food and require money to do so and conveniently all of a sudden am dissatisfied with your magazine? So even then, years later, I can still get a refund? Why that's splendid.
Wait, what's this...in your final words, you say "If you enclose your payment today, I'll also send you a special 3' x 2' world map for free." What? But I got this a week ago. No way, I can't bring myself to subscribe now, not after missing the deadline for my free world map. Oh, man, this sucks. What the hell's this "today" stuff anyway? What if I'd been ill that day or out of the house up north ice fishing? What then? I'd get back only to find out that in my absence I had missed out on a free map. I'd have been crushed. Hell, I'm crushed now. If you see any smears on this letter, those would be my I-can't-believe-I-missed-out-on-a-world-map tears. Oh, the humanity.
Uh-oh...wait just a second. The letter says I save 33% off the cover price...but the card enclosed says I save only 30%. What the hell? You wouldn't be trying to hold out on me would you? And don't give me this "it's just three percent" nonsense either. Now I'm just...oh, I am just irked. IRKED, I tell you. That's like mad, only a synonym! Hell, I'm piqued! PIQUED! Not in the past 7 years have I become piqued! Angry, sure. Sometimes even upset. But now you've unleashed the wrath...it's piquing time. Oh boy, you've really done it this time, Wayne.
But I digress. And I'm tired. I must sleep now. You should too.
Sincerely,Lincoln TrudeauP.S. The Buddha got a haircut. Your damn gold rock just fell down the cliff and crushed 75 assorted barn animals and the monks in the orange robes are doing a strip-tease in the Moscow Circus. Please send me a revision of your postcard to match this sudden turn of events.
