Billy Ivey's Open Letters to Trojan, Part 6

10-20-06
Dear Trojan…
You know what makes you not the worst company (and product) to have ever been let through the patent office?

Nesting.

You read correctly. “Nesting.” That’s the only redeemable thing about what your crap product allowed to happen to me about 3 months ago.

She’s starting to clean, and I freaking love it! Drawers, closets, the kitchen cabinets and pantry. She even sorted my sock drawer.

Nesting is wonderful, and I guess - at the end of a long weekend - I owe you guys a debt of thanks.

So… thanks.

Douchebags.

*****
11-14-06
Dear Trojan…
…sorry I haven’t written in a few weeks. I’ve been busy.

Don’t think for a second that I’ve forgotten about you. The odds of that happening rank down there with me waking up from this very real and lengthy nightmare.

It aint happenin’.

But this particular love note has nothing to do with an update of any kind. I need to clarify a few things. My hate and disgust and rage toward you and your cheap-ass product have no reflection on how I feel for or about my wife. Any anger that you “perceive” regarding our correspondence should be absorbed and taken to heart by you and you alone.

And George Bush.

I love my wife more than I love beer (and I tell her so on a regular basis)! I just hate what you have allowed to happen to her hormones. Those little demon-bastards are what make me pray for death.

For me, not her.

It’s not her fault, and I know that. And I also know that I’ll one day learn to love the little miracle that’s dancing around in her belly. This has nothing to do with my family - current or impending. It’s about YOU.

So, thank you and screw you. You’ll be hearing from me soon.

*****
11-16-06
Dear Trojan…
Tell me something… since you guys are the supposed “experts” in the area(s) of whatever the hell you do: Is it normal for me to actually be able to SEE hormones? I’m not kidding. En Masse, they form something that looks almost exactly like my wife. Except for the eyes are fire and they yell a lot. I’d just like to know; I might need to consult a doctor. Or a minister. Or an exorcist.

Anyway, we’re making progress with all of this. We’ve decided on a name. If it’s a manchild, we’ll call him “Abe” (after someone named Abraham). If it’s a girl, my wife can call her whatever she wants, because Ben and I are leaving.

I hate you.