Open letter to the asshat who insisted on getting a satellite dish for Apt. 8 (and the 'satellite technician' who cut the cable)

Dear Sir or Madam:

While many people might understand -- even sypathize -- with your carnal drive to dump Time Warner and subscribe to a satellite company just so you could order the beefy NFL package*, seeing as Time Warner only offers a piddly NBA package (effing Grizzlies!), I, as the person who inherited the apartment your decision affects, want to raise my voice and offer to a solemn rebuke of your selfish ways, you pigskin-stroking meathead.

I must admit, I was shocked to learn that there is even a square foot of space left on this green earth where it is difficult to get cable. Hell, don't ad revenues depend on the very notion that at any given moment someone's slack-jawed stare will be pointed at a TV? And, while I suppose it was foolish of me to assume -- even after securing an affirmative from the leasing agent not once, but twice -- that getting the cable turned on would be no problem, it still sticks in my craw that cable access for my apartment would not be a problem had some dimwitted asshole decided to simply disconnect or unhook the cable from the wall instead of cutting the fucking cable right outside the box on the far side of the apartment complex, making a complete-building rewiring through every apartment's attic necessary if it's ever to be restored, which could take up to two months for Time Warner to even schedule, much less actually do. My lease is only for six months, you feckless bastard.

As I'm sure you are aware, despite having vacated the premesis for your own half-baked reasons, that this apartment is nearly perfect ... aside from the fact that it wasn't cleaned before I moved in; and the fridge has some smelly plant life growing under the crisper and, strangely enough, in the icebox; and the floor is a tad slanted and creaky; and the buzzer doesn't work so I can't receive gentlemen callers (which works out beautifully for I have no gentlemen callers) or package deliveries (which works out horribly because I adore mail order); and there are only two electrical outlets in the entire living room; and the back door takes an act of Congress to lock sometimes; and there is no smoke detector or fire extinguisher; and my car is pelted with dozens of birdshit bombs no matter where I park, if I even get one of the 10 parking spaces shared among 16 units, that is.

But truly, despite its technological deficiencies, the place is a thing of beauty. I love it so much, I can just sit quietly and look around and be content. Didn't you ever just sit with the windows open, listening to the frantic McLean traffic and the feral cats squabbling in the parking lot and that random dude who just yells "hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey!" periodically somewhere out back? Didn't you ever just peer out the window and try to figure out what the hell all that stuff is on the neighbor's balcony? Did you ever get on all fours and sniff around the bathroom, trying to suss out what it was emitting that oddly undefinable smell? Did you ever wonder if the knocking in the radiators was really chapped-lip trolls making off with your Carmex stash?

No, probably not. Because you were busy watching your shitty satellite TV, you shiftless cretin.

So now, because of your wanton lust for grabby faux-masculine ball sports, I can't get broadband at home. And my elaborate penny-saving scheme (wherein I forego a land line for a cheaper cell plan to better afford broadband and, if I decide to splurge, cable) has been dashed to the dickens, because I'm having to pony up for an unnecessary ($30!) land line just so I can get DSL. Which means no TV for me, unless I want to subscribe to satellite service, which I will not do, because, apparently, only mouthbreathing slackwits get satellite TV and manage to fuck up the connectitude for every tenant thereafter.

I expect to receive my DSL modem from the Postal Service some time in the next week, or at least that's the estimate. It might take longer because I guess I'll just hang around and peer out the window all day to try and catch the mail(wo)man, which probably won't happen very easily, since I have a fucking job that keeps me away from the window, in another building on another street. It's not like he or she can buzz me and have me come down to get the damn package even if I'm there, or leave it somewhere safe like an office, because there isn't one. Besides, the "hey" dude would probably find it and figure out a way to turn the modem into a crack pipe, so thanks for the trouble, jackbag.

Sweet nuzzles and pinches,
Lindsey

*Pure speculation based on what the Time Warner dude told me happens all the time in Midtown and North Memphis. People will move in, get cable, and discover that they can't get the premium sports packages they want, so they drop cable and get satellite instead. And then the satellite fuckers cut wires haphazardly so that the people who live in the place after that are practically forced into just keeping dish service. And then the sports fanatics move out six months later. And the world somehow keeps turning even in the face of such monumental injustice.