Dear Sir or Madam,
Thank you so much for taking the time to create such an adorable little product! My three-year-old’s eyes nearly popped out of her head when she realized that Santa had brought her the pink plastic bubble-blowing monkey of her dreams. As you can imagine, when she saw that BBM even came with his very own bottle of bubbles (okay, it was a few droplets of watered down cheap-ass generic dish soap, but how was she to know this? The kid’s three. She’s hardly a bubble connoisseur.), she nearly wept with joyous anticipation.
Except—and you probably can guess what’s coming here—the effing thing didn’t work. Oh, once I unearthed eight AA batteries and finally fashioned them in the totally random configuration your malevolent designer thought would be fun to torture parents with, I will admit that the monkey’s mouth did open and close as the box promised. His frightening little bubble-wand arm did rotate and dip into his watery soap-filled mouth between yaps. And what sounded like a tiny burst of air did gurgle up from his throat when the watery soap-dipped arm was positioned in front of his scary clown-like lips. But—and this was slightly anticlimactic, I have to admit—no bubbles came out. Not a single one. We watched in disappointed horror as slippery, watery slop dripped down the poor monkey’s bubble-wand arm, over and over. And over. And over.
Hum, click, drip. Hum, click drip.
The worst part is, my kind-hearted daughter feels sorry for what I have since christened the Stupid, Goddamned, Ugly, Useless Troll-Monkey. So instead of momentarily enjoying him and then letting him fade into oblivion like a good, cheap toy, I have to stare at his worthless, repulsive form—which now sits right by her bed—for the rest of my life.
So even though we’re obviously not returning him, I would still appreciate if you would refund my eleven dollars. It’s the least you could do.
Thanks in advance.*
* Unless you don’t refund my money. In that case, rot in hell, you evil, greedy bastard.