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Philabustering the Phucktographer - Part 1

Remember Wedding Shit Wednesday? Well, it is back. I probably haven�t done a very good job of keeping you up-to-date on the situation with the Phucktographer because there really hasn�t been much to report. It has been over a year now, and we still haven�t received our wedding photos from this asshole. At this point, it is probably very unlikely that we will receive our photographs. That�s really depressing. In order to make myself feel better about the whole situation, I�ve decided it is time to begin fully harassing the Phucktographer. This week�s efforts include emails to his personal email address found via his website registration, a letter to his home found via the court cases against the ass monkey for screwing other brides and a message on his cell number which not surprisingly went to an unmarked voicemail box. I also sent a note to the PO Box listed on the ordering page for our wedding photos. Why don�t I just order some prints from him you might ask? Well, because that would require me sending ANOTHER check to the phucknut, and if this guy can�t burn a CD Rom of pictures as written into our contract in ONE YEAR, what would make me believe that entering an order for pictures of my entire family and then sending him a check would prompt a response out of him? Obviously, giving the man money doesn�t elicit the normal response of providing services with this motherPHUCKER.

If direct requests for the CDs don�t work this week, I plan to begin exercising my creative writing skills with what I like to call �Philabustering the Phucktographer.� I�ve written the first letter. Tell me what you think.

Dear Phucktographer,

Gosh! It has been so long since you�ve written! I hope things are going well. Remember last year when I invited 175 of my closest friends and family members and you to my wedding? What a special day that was for Ryan and me! I can�t imagine a better day spent with my loved ones (and you), celebrating a marriage that has brought so much joy and happiness to our lives.

I tell you, the only blemish on that day was the fact that you are a phucking prick who can�t get his act together to burn a damn CD of the pictures we�ve already paid you for. It reminds me of something that happened when I was just a kid. My brothers and cousins and I stayed at my grandparent�s house for a few days one summer. We enjoyed walking the streets of that small little town, playing in the school yard, and visiting the general store. It was a great visit. During the visit, we came across a stray white cat. It was a beautiful cat, and really friendly, too. We named it Salt. Everywhere we went, Salt followed us. By the end of the week, we�d become quite attached to Salt. When our parents came to pick us up, we begged and begged for them to let us take Salt home. Finally, they agreed, and we were the happiest kids on the planet.

My mom didn�t much care for the name we�d chose for this white cat. We�d struggled to even come up with the name Salt. I mean it was a boy cat, so you could hardly name it SnowBall or Fluffy or anything girly like that. We toyed with Ice Cream, Mashed Potatoes and even Q-Tip. Nothing seemed quite right. After awhile, we drifted back to the snow theme (get it! Drifted! Ha ha! I crack myself up!) The cat was a bit crazy, white and a boy. We decided to rename it Blizzard. We loved Blizzard. Everyday when we came home from school, Blizzard would be waiting for us in the front yard. We played with the cat, fed it and loved it. My brother even built him a little cat home out of a cardboard box. He wrote Blizzard on the top of it, but he wrote the �L� and the �I� too close together. My uncle read the box and asked us why in the world we would name a cat �Buzzard�. We laughed and laughed. How silly he was!

One day, I came home from school, and Blizzard wasn�t waiting for us in the front yard. My dad told me that he was probably out hunting mice or maybe rabbits. I stared out the window all night looking for Blizzard, and I called for him over and over again. The next morning, I went down to the end of the road to wait for the bus. The whole way down the road, I looked in the fields for Blizzard. When I got on the bus, I stared forlornly out the window, looking in the ditches and the fields for that crazy white cat. He was nowhere to be seen. When we got home that night, I ran up the road, hoping to see Blizzard waiting for us in the front yard, his chest bloodied and stained pink by the massive rabbit he�d killed while he was away. Alas, Blizzard wasn�t there

Days went by, then weeks, then months, then years. During the first few weeks, I was diligent about looking out the bus window and searching the fields and valleys for Blizzard. Many times, my brothers and I made my parents pull over because we thought we saw him. Usually, it was a white plastic grocery bag or maybe a wad of discarded paper. It was never our beloved Blizzard. I don�t remember exactly when Blizzard came into our lives and when he left, but I know I kept looking for him long after it should have been evident that he was never coming back. After awhile, a fluffy grey kitten wondered onto our property, and we took to the task of naming him and caring for him and loving him. As we struggled to find a name for this new cat, we reminisced about the naming of Blizzard. In the end, we named the new cat Screech because that was the sound he made when my older brother stepped on him, and we figured he wouldn�t live very long, so why not. Screech lived for almost fourteen years, and we loved him, too, but even as we cared for him, I found myself looking out that bus window searching for my beloved Blizzard.

Anyway, I was reminded of the story of Blizzard because I experience something similar to that feeling of hope then despair every time I come home at night and peek in my mailbox. You told me months ago that you would mail me the CDs in an automatic reply to my email, and I have been anxiously awaiting their arrival ever since. Every night, I walk up my stairs to the mailbox. Sometimes, there is something tall peeking out. Maybe, I think, just maybe, the Phucktographer devoted 15 minutes of his time to burning the CDs he was paid to burn over a year ago! Oh to see the pictures of my entire family standing on the altar. Adorable little Holly in her burgundy flower girl dress� My aunts and uncles cutting a rug on the dance floor� But then I reach the mailbox and pull out the mail and realize it is just another white plastic grocery bag or maybe a wad of discarded paper and my heart sinks just like it did when Blizzard never returned.

I am really phucking pissed off that you turned out to be so much like the rotting carcass of that cat I loved 18 years ago. Karma�s a bitch, you phucker. I�ll write again soon.

Yours truly,

Jennifer

10:33 a.m. - November 09, 2005

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