Dear Bullseye Corp,

I would like to start out by saying that I am a loyal shopper.  A man who has spent many a dollar and hour wandering your aisles, purchasing everything from laundry detergent to an epic retro Batman t-shirt to toys to electronics.  I really enjoy your store and have always had a satisfying experience, even when I suffer the endless asking of the question, “Would you like to save 5% on your purchase today?”  Ugh, of course, who would not?  Anyway, I even overlooked the whole identity theft thing.  After all, you have like a billion customers, so every now and then someone is going to go after you and your shoppers.  It was not all your fault.  Today, however was awful.  I mean it was one of those rock bottom experiences, where you question your loyalty and every purchase you have ever made.  Well, not the retro Batman t-shirt, that remains awesome, even after the events of today.

We were trimming our Christmas tree and I wanted some Christmas music to accompany our happy family moment.  Well, unfortunately, our 11-year-old had recently broken our trusty Radio-CD player and I wanted to listen to some of our abundant Christmas CDs.  Who did I turn to?  Who did I trust?  You, that’s who.  I went to a trusted friend for help and there, sure enough, was what I was looking for…  the last Radio-CD player still manufactured on the face of God’s green Earth.  I purchased the Radio-CD player and I joyfully brought it back home.

While scrambling to assemble the Radio-CD player, I was dismayed.  Where was the wall charger that should be in the box?  I looked and looked for the charger and it was nowhere to be found.  I plugged in some backup batteries, hoping that they would play our Michael Buble Christmas CD (hey, don’t judge me, I bet lots of folks own that CD and by the way, I purchased it as a gift for my wife at your store).  Just about to give up hope, anticipating a Bubleless Christmas, and plotting to run over the Radio-CD player with my car, my 7-year-old approached his nearly crying father and said, “Dad, what’s this?”  Much to my relief, the charger had fallen into the dog’s toy basket, when I opened the box.  It was a Christmas miracle.

I popped in the CD and there was Michael Buble singing to me.  Actually, crooning in just the right Christmassy sort of way.  Assuming all was well, I had dinner with the family.  A lovey pasta dinner that featured some tasty wine (hey, I asked you not to judge me and by the way, that had no impact on the outcome of this story).  After dinner, I went to enjoy some more music on the Radio-CD and the CD player would not play anything for longer than 15 seconds.  The thing had turned from regular purchase to junk over the short course of a family dinner.  Desperate, I began to suspect that Michael Buble had sabotaged the unit.  “If they are going to play something other than me, they will listen to nothing at all!”  I tried all sorts of Christmas CDs and all of them produced nothing.  My wife began to grow concerned.  I was becoming desperate.  Unstable.  No longer Christmassy at all.

Who could I turn to?  Certainly not that weasel Buble.  Then it hit me, turn to someone from the “CD Era.”  Someone who would understand.  Someone smooth.  Someone who could make it all better.  Someone who is more Buble than Buble could ever be.  Someone who was Buble, before Buble.  Mr. Harry Connick, Jr.  Popping in his first Christmas CD, Harry began to calm my soul.  He was bringing Christmas back.  Then, suddenly, like the Grinch descending from the mountaintop, Christmas was ripped from my being, leaving a hole that can never be filled.  The CD stopped working.  The CD player that I had purchased in good faith from your store.  It let me down.  It let Harry Connick, Jr. down.  It let down Christmas.

Saddened beyond belief, I packaged up the failure of a Radio-CD player and prepared to return it to your store.  A walk that would be accompanied by your shame and betrayal.  Oh well, at least I could rest on the couch and enjoy the fireplace in front of the Christmas tree lights, but wait, while I was struggling with your substandard product, my dog had taken my place on the couch.  I was now lower than our dog, who by the way, loves to climb into the open dishwasher and lick nasty dirty plates.  I was that low and it is all because of you.

I don’t write this letter with any hope that you can ever make this situation better for me, I may be too far gone.  It is my hope that you will stop selling this product and spare others from the pain I suffered.  Spare others from losing the joy of Christmas.  This is my hope.  This is my Christmas wish.

Sincerely,

A Man Suffering a Now Silent Christmas

PS – Thank you for letting me vent, although I still hold your gargantuan corporation responsible and will be bitter until I need to buy something else from your store, probably within the next day or two.