Dear Subscription Service of the Universe:
Please UNSUBSCRIBE me from the following:
Group texts of five or more persons: Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING!!!!!!! Little red iPhone number: 2,888 unread text messages. AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
Replies all of five or more persons re: topics that do not require a single reply, much less a reply all: “Hey, you got a promotion, congratulations!” “Congrats!” “Congrats!” “Way to Go!” “Wow, amazing!” "Let's all say congratulations via this reply all!" "I'm replying all to 1,000 people so I am obviously a huge jack ass!" KILL ME NOW!!!!
Anything from the American Bar Association and/or The Seminar Group: No, dipshits. I’m not going to pay a thousand dollars to attend a conference in Detroit on the privacy implications of Smart TVs. No, seriously, I am not. No, not a three-day round-table workshop with breakout sessions on commercial arbitrage either. I don't care if Alan Greenspan himself is there. Nope. Nope. Aaaaaand . . . Nope!
Anything delivered to my junk Yahoo email address (e.g. Facebook notifications, Banana Republic sale announcements, and promotional emails from M&Ms because of that one time I tried to get “Fuck Cancer” written on M&Ms for a sick friend but M&Ms is a bunch of fascist candy-making pigs who wouldn’t let me pay good money to print "Fuck Cancer" on their stupid bad-for-a-cancer-sufferer-anyway-sugar-poison). And especially spam trying to make me buy wine or penis enlargement remedies. I don’t drink wine, and I don’t have a penis. And if I did, I'd stick my dick in a glass of Malbec before I'd buy wine or a penis enlargement remedy from a spam solicitation. Therefore, your wine and penis spam is likely even more wasted on me than the average recipient of wine and penis spam.
A spousal lecture regarding disorganized Corningware, dish towels, and shampoo: youalwaysputthestuffintherwrongplacewhyisitalwaysinthewrongplaceicanneverfinditthisissoterriblenoonecaneverfindanythingaroundherethisisawfulhowdowelivethisway ..... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Paper that comes to my mailbox, except the occasional check. Do you not realize you go straight from my mailbox into the recycling, Paper? And that I barely look at you for two seconds, Paper? And that no matter how many times I ask you to stop coming here you insist on being a dead-tree reflection of something I already took care of online or by phone several weeks ago, Paper, you dick hole? FUCK YOU AND THE USPS TRUCK YOU RODE IN ON, PAPER!