To whom it may concern,

On June 29th, I ordered a package from REDACTED, inc., to be shipped through Purolator. On July 3rd, it was allegedly delivered to my door, to no response, despite the fact that I was home and noted no truck arriving. As is par for the Purolator course, no tag was left at my residence, nor was I contacted by phone. July 4th, I checked the local Purolator Depot (REDACTED in REDACTED, Ontario) to see if they had heard anything about my delivery, and was there told that they had shipped my package away, as the contact phone number on it was invalid. I was under the impression there was a customary waiting period of more than 24 hours, but at this point, I am no longer surprised. From the 4th through the 9th, my package was at the REDACTED depot, a fact I discovered by entering my tracking number at your website, though I’d thought you could deliver a package without my instructions every step of the way. At 4:50 pm on Wednesday, July 11th, I called your customer service line, and I was told that my package was again at the local depot. Once at the depot, I was informed that this was not the case.

The package I wish delivered is worth about $30 CDN. If you think for ONE MOMENT that I am going to continue to chase around your idiotic employees and associates to get a $30 package, you are more foolish than even I had assumed. I will not be doing any business with Purolator in the future, and I will encourage my friends and family to join me in my boycott. Moreover, I am planning on purchasing a “UPS” hat and wearing it all hours of the day. Your business is poorly run, your automated hotline is useless, and many of your employees are overweight and unpleasant to look at. Such is my fury, such is my mania, that I have etched the Purolator logo into my right arm with an X-acto knife, that I may glance at it daily and bubble with unbridled rage and unadulterated hatred. Each evening at 5:36, the time my package was sacrificed to the void that is your shipping system, I douse the wound in vinegar, lamenting the loss of Sixty half-dollars once more.

You owe me thirty bucks,

Wikkee!

The next day, I received a reply. How eager they were to help me!

Dear Wikkee!,

Thank you for your email. I do apologize for any inconvenience the circumstances surrounding this shipment have caused you. We
have attempted to deliver this shipment on two occasions, but unfortunately there was no one there to receive it. We do not leave
delivery attempt notices in apartment buildings for security reasons. There was also an incorrect phone number on the shipment.

Would you like me to arrange a redelivery for you, or would you like this returned to sender?

Please do not hesitate to contact me if you require any further assistance.

Thank you,

REDACTED
Customer Solutions Specialist
Moncton Customer Contact Center
REDACTED@purolator.com

As I was reading this, it came to my attention (rather abruptly) that much of it wasn’t true. I don’t like liars, so I started typing a reply to set the record straight.

Ms. REDACTED,

If by “We have attempted to deliver this shipment on two occasions, but unfortunately there was no one there to receive it”, you meant “Our drivers are too mindless and obtuse to master simplistic tasks like ringing the doorbell, despite the fact that you were home at the alleged time of delivery”, I think we may be on the same page. The particular apartment building I live in has one of those fancy-pants tele-entry systems, requiring the visitor to enter the resident’s apartment number, thereby causing their home phone to ring.

Ms. REDACTED, my phone didn’t ring. I’m pretty certain of this, too. Let’s pretend I was having a psychotic episode at the time and didn’t hear it or thought it was a series of voices taunting me, for the sake of argument. Alas, my phone is a sophisticated device that alerts me of calls I may have missed while searching frantically for my psych meds. It would even display “DOOR” in large, friendly, digitized letters along with the phone number that said entry system operates from. This did not occur. This leads me to believe that your driver is either an idiot or a liar, perhaps even both.

If I may shift the topic slightly, I’d to offer you some anecdotal evidence of the rampant incompetence raging within your company. My mother, a backwards lady of fifty-two, ordered some items to be shipped through Purolator to her home, which, incidentally, is a big brown house, not an apartment. On July 10th, the package was delivered at 1:37pm to her door. Sadly, my mother and my brother, the only two residents of that house over the age of eighteen, were both at work. The delivery man removed the package from his truck, approached the front door and glanced briefly in the window. Apparently satisfied that no one could possibly be home, he rejected the idea of KNOCKING and turned to leave. By coincidence, my younger sister happened to witness all of this, prompting her to rush to the front door and call the driver back. He returned, and, for reasons I cannot fathom, allowed my TWELVE YEAR OLD SISTER to sign for the package. I suppose it’s possible that he assumed she was of age to sign, but that would mean he ignored the Barbie dolls in her hands and the fact that she speaks like Elmer Fudd on helium.

When I had reached this point in my reply, I received a second e-mail from this chump. Here it is, in it’s entirety.

I am currently out of the office returning July 23, 2007. If you require immediate assistance please call 1-888-744-7123.

Oh, you motherfucker. Accordingly, I finished my response.

Moments ago, I received a second e-mail from you, by the way. I guess in the first one you forgot to change “Please do not hesitate to contact me if you require any further assistance.” to “Please feel free to contact me in ten days when I return, because by that time, I’m sure you’ll have forgotten all about your package.” I think it was extremely considerate of your superiors to refer me to someone who is taking two weeks of vacation starting the day after I received her e-mail. I’m assuming that this is the method you used to obtain the title of “Customer Solutions Specialist”, as dodging unruly customers and ignoring valid complaints is a fantastic way to solve the problem of having customers.

As for what I would like done with the package, I am all but certain that the cretins you call “underlings” will be unable to bring it to my door or, apparently, even my city. Accordingly, I would like it force fed to the jackass responsible for delivering packages in the REDACTED area. I understand that you may not be able to honour my request, with all the legal issues attached to it and all, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d try. If you’ll excuse me, I need to douse the logo I scratched into my arm in paint thinner now, as with each bit of correspondence with you, my urge to hurt myself heightens.

With great contempt,

Wikkee!

The package was returned to sender and I got a full refund. Happy ending indeed.

The following is a special guest article by Social Revolutionary / Factory Employee Stefan Phillips. Despite being relatively unknown to the ignorant masses, “Sensei” Stefan Phillips continues to be a driving force in the dark world of anti-establishment-pseudo-socialist gonzo journalism. Here is his personal account of the world changing events that occurred August 24, 2009.

It was a chilly night, especially for August. I stood atop a fencepost, balanced precariously on one expertly trained foot, surveying the small town I called my home. As my brow glistened, resplendent in the moonlight, I coolly sipped from my home-distilled bottle of water. You’d never catch me drinking that filth from the tap, laden with chemicals designed to weaken your will, or that brand named bottle garbage brimming with mind altering drugs. No sir, this is Stefan Phillips we’re talking about, though some call me “The Man who Knows Too Much”. There’s truth behind this name; I have knowledge of things you’d never even dream of. I know things that would get me killed by federal agents in black helicopters in a heartbeat if I wasn’t too clever to be found. Consequently, I keep a low profile, like a shadow in the night. But on this night, my shadow would be visible to the wrong sort of eyes, and I could feel it in my gut.

The corrupted homicidal vermin I used to call my “doctor” told me I had an “ulcer”, but I knew that was just an excuse to pump me full of Pepto-Bismol, which contained the Alzheimer’s inducing agent bismuth subsalicylate. And I’ll be damned if I lose the precious memories of my Kung-Fu training to a government quack. I grimaced as I prepared to swallow a mouthful of sodium chloride and bushmaster snake venom with a slice of plantain to ease my restless stomach. Hastily, relief arrived. When you know as much as a man like myself, you can’t rely on pharmacies to heal you.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. The lingering scent of my unwashed hair invaded my nostrils and I knew that tonight was snake serum night. The delicate mixture of snake-oil and window cleaner was too powerful to apply every night, and as such, my lustrous head of hair could only be cleansed twice weekly. But filth-encrusted follicles were not the only scent I picked up – there was a strong negative Chi in the air. I licked my teeth, a bad habit I often fall into when I am incensed. I developed it years ago when I discovered the passively-hypnotic properties of Fluoride, and feverishly licked eighty percent of the enamel from my teeth. Nowadays, I know to avoid tap water, greenhouse produce, toothpaste, and certain brands of dog biscuits, but I lamented the folly of my youth.

The stench of vile dark Chi was emanating from downtown, so I gathered my provisions and quickly made for the malodorous source. In full camouflage, I attracted a good many stares from stunned pedestrians. They jeered at me when I walked too close, and I often heard their mocking cries as I swiftly moved past them. A lesser man may have given into temptation and demonstrated his superb kung-fu skills on one of the fools, but I forgave them. After all, I am Stefan Phillips, far too important a man to be wasting his time thrashing the lifeless body of an unenlightened local. The poor bastard’s senses were probably so watered down by penicillin and acetaminophen that he could barely function, let alone challenge the pure mind and magnificent physique of Stefan Phillips.

As I passed by an alleyway, my nostrils flared and my mind was assaulted by what I knew to be highly suggestive brain waves created my machines harvested from the Roswell crash site. I chanted my mantra, struggling with the extra terrestrial technology and indeed, my own dark past. I had faced this sort of thing before, in 1995. I knew who the culprit was then, and I knew it now. But why now? Why here? My head reeled as I screamed into the void.

“I KNOW YOU’RE HERE, YOU BRAINWASHING GOVERNMENT BOOGIEMEN! REVEAL YOURSELVES!”

Abruptly, the alien waves ceased. I could see nothing, but I heard the quiet sobs of a woman and a thick, familiar laugh. Then, a catchy beat began to play from somewhere. A voice spoke:

“Ey Yo, this one’s for The Masonic Order, check it…

I’ma turn yo brain into mush,
Subjugate yo will,
Destroy all of yo organs,
And then send you the bill,
I make the sick sicker,
My prescription is pain,
Worst killa since Hitler,
All y’all know my name!”

As my vision cleared, the first thing I saw were the big pair of Lugz in front of my face. A gold chain dangled a few feet in front of me, bearing a pendant with the Pfizer logo etched into it, adorned with glittering diamonds. I had seen this before.

“Big Pharma!” I exclaimed, breathlessly. My “doctor” told me I was asthmatic, but only a chump would inhale that mercury-laden mist the bastards prescribe. I produced a quantity of ginko biloba and aloe from my right cargo pocket, crushed it in my iron grip, and licked the residue steadily. My breath slowly returned to me.

“What business do you have in this sleepy town, Big Pharma?! I thought the feds kept their lapdogs on Manitoulin Island!” I shrieked. As everyone knows, the true, un-elected Canadian government, the ones who pull the strings, are based on Manitoulin Island, in a secret underground lair. The Parliament House in Ottawa is nothing more than a facade.

Big Pharma grimaced, looked to his left, and snapped his fingers. Seemingly out of nowhere, two large, muscular men clad in black business suits appeared. Though it was nearly 2:00 am, sunglasses graced their menacing faces. Big Pharma raised his microphone to speak.

“If it ain’t Stefan,
Shoulda kept to yoself,
Laid low in the darkness,
Protectin’ yo health.
Now you done got caught,
By the screams of dis girl,
Now nothing will stop us,
From controllin’ the world. Peace.”

Ironically, when he spoke the word “Peace”, his two goons sprung towards me. I dodged to the left, then took out the first stooge with a spinning heel kick. As his skull shattered with the impact, his glasses fell, and I saw the man’s eyes, if only briefly. They contained not hatred, but admiration. Admiration for me, for my elite martial arts techniques. I was moved.

The second henchman began to weep and beg for mercy, so I turned my back on him and glanced down at the dead man laying at my feet. In his adoring eyes, I caught the reflection of his compatriot reaching for a sidearm. I turned, blindingly fast, and delivered a thrust to his solar plexus. He died cursing my name, but acknowledging my skill. Finally, I turned to Big Pharma.

“Looks like it’s time to rap things up, eh, Big Pharma?” I quipped, cracking my knuckles. His face drained of all colour, except black, because he was of the negro persuasion, a people I have nothing whatsoever against. Many of my best friends were of African descent. Suddenly, a puff of blue smoke obscured my vision. I groped in the darkness for Big Pharma, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t locate him. Not because he was difficult to see, or anything – just because of all the smoke. When the smoke cleared, I saw a pair of Lugz rising into the air. I couldn’t believe my eyes, just like on 9/11. But this time, the explanation was far less sinister.

“See you in hell, homefry!” cackled Big Pharma, dangling from a rope ladder, which I could dimly make out was attached to the underside of a silent, black helicopter. I silently cursed to myself as his form disappeared into the moonlight. I turned my attention to the sobbing woman.

“Are you okay, miss? Can you walk?” I implored as I gingerly touched her cheek. She gazed into my inquisitive eyes and buried her head in my masculine chest, sobbing.

“Shh. Shh, it’s okay. I know, I know…” I consoled her. “I know about everything. The faked moon landing, the pharmaceutical conspiracy, the cults, the rituals…You’re safe now.”

She looked up, her beautiful visage gazed at me once more. She began to speak, her lip trembling.

“You don’t understand! They experimented on me! They forced me to…to…” she began to sob again.

“Forced you to what? You can tell me, I know Kung-Fu.” I assured her.

“Forced me to undergo….chemotherapy!” she wept wretchedly. “I contracted cancer…from a Snickers bar…served at a Post Office luncheon…oh, why, Lord? Why!?”

I smiled, knowing that I could take all of this woman’s pain away in an instant. “Chemotherapy is a ruse, but a cure for cancer exists! There’s still hope!”

“Really?” she asked, beautifully.

“Really. It’s called ginseng. I happen to have a dose on me right now. Chew this.” I said, handing her a tuber from my left cargo pocket, the ginseng pocket.

She chewed the root slowly, and began to smile. One by one, her tumors began to disappear, and through the mystic power of Mountain Ginseng, her mastectomy was reversed. While overjoyed, her face took on a serious tone.

“I must warn you of their evil plan!” she hissed, eying me hungrily. “Big Pharma plans to travel to the moon to build a pharmaceutical manufacturing facility! All the top minds in the world will be kidnapped and taken there! And there will be missiles!”

I chuckled lightly. “And how, my dear, does he plan to get them through the Van Allen Belt?”

Her eyes widened with terror. “That madman has created a shuttle with a new kind of shielding. Composed of lead!” at this, she leapt on me, kissing my neck and rubbing at my groin. Ginseng, of course, was also a powerful aphrodisiac. But this news was alarming. I knew, given that they were taking the greatest minds in the world along, I would eventually be summoned to the facility. Nevertheless, there was work to be done. I rose to my feet, gently brushing the super-hot babe off of me.

“Please stay!” she panted. “I want to thank you properly!” She licked her lips.

“There isn’t time, miss. I’ve got a blog to write!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

It’s time for another PUBLIC ENEMY, wherein I act like an asshole to strangers on the internet and post the results.

The backstory:

One day, after a hard day of work euthanizing radioactive orphans from Belarus (Is he joking?), I returned home and checked my electronic mail. Waiting in my inbox was this retarded shit:

Dear Site Owner,

I am contacting you today in reference to a proposal for your website from one of my biggest clients. My client is a major entertainment website developer that is looking to expand their online presence by purchasing promotional ad space on select websites. Your website has been selected as a target for this advertising purchase, which will promote one of my client’s top online gaming websites. The advertisements will be in the form of simple text copy (no pictures or banners).

Please let me know at your earliest convenience if you’re interested in receiving more information about my client’s offer to you.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Thank you and best regards,
Lisa Jones

I was like, “What? Fuck you!“, and I vowed to slay the vile beast that delivered this wretched message unto me. Then I got a cup of coffee and read it again. This act may have saved both parties from a great deal of embarrassment. I typed up an appropriate response and sent it with haste. I’m still waiting for further negotiations.

Ms. Jones,

I would first like to thank you for giving me the opportunity to become a corporate shill, reaping the rewards of selling advertisements right next to unfunny content and boring tirades about snack food. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I may have to decline your offer, as I’ve encountered a few snags. Firstly, though I would love to rip my readership off even more than I am already by forcing them to ingest enticing offers to gamble their rent money away while wearing ultra-cool mirrored sunglasses, I can’t seem to find evidence of any readership at all. Seriously, did you read that art expo thing? I thought that shit was pretty funny, and yet nobody commented on it. I console myself by pretending that 100 000 people are too busy holding their sides laughing at my genius, but since I started taking this medication, it’s become harder and harder to convince myself that this is the case. So I’m pretty confused as to why your nameless “client” (I used to think that when women used this word, it made them sound like hookers. Then I discovered that hookers refer to their customers as “Johns”. I would argue that this is unfair to anyone not named John, as it would make the sexual intercourse you paid for very impersonal. Please give me your thoughts on this.) would want to advertise on my site at all. My second issue is the veracity and security of this offer. If my mom were to Google my name and stumble upon my site (which would invariably result in me being removed from her will), would she be bombarded with poorly coded fake-virus scanners and have to watch YouTube videos of cats wrestling on another machine? My mother is a woman who takes feline-on-feline crime very seriously, and if her computer were to be bricked by some shady ad for “Online Russian Roulette!”, she would be very angry. She’d probably call me and ask me to fix it, and when I explained (repeatedly) what happened and where it came from, she would think me a “sucker in the pocket of big-business” or a “worthless asshole”, and I would get a reduced portion of turkey next Thanksgiving.

In closing, I refuse your offer because it fucking sucks and your client is a gaywad. Unless your client can verify that he is a member of Darkthrone, in which case he’s pretty fucking metal and I admire his artistic integrity.

Darkthrone rules,

Wikkee!

You’ll notice that I didn’t bother to change any names (Even Darkthrone’s!) because I’ve stopped giving a shit about accountability. Nice.

Our first piece is one I myself painted, whilst sitting in an abandoned tea house in the south end of Oshawa, Ontario. Before selecting my brush, I packed the structure with incendiaries and set it ablaze. An understandable sense of urgency can be seen in each brush stroke, and the utilization of sumi-e allows the piece to shine in it’s simplicity. Note the calm, steely-eyed gaze the battle hardened warrior sports, as well as the totally ineffectual shin guards he seems to be wearing. A playful resourcefulness is felt, observing that the sword he is wielding couldn’t possible fit in his, or any traditional, scabbard. His masculine resolve is tangible.

Title: Self Portrait Artist: Wikkee! Medium: Watercolor on Paper Price:$125 000
Detail 1	Detail 2

Lyricist Buck Fiddy demonstrates that his artistic abilities are not limited to the microphone with a charming, sumi-e piece, which brings to mind nostalgic images of a typical page in a kung-fu manual. The style, which he clearly aped after looking at my painting like a no-talent hack, is simplistic yet intriguing. The piece presents several questions, such as “Does that moon-language writing mean anything?”, “Is this from a real manual?” “Is Wikkee! mistaken about you being an unoriginal jackass and biting his style?”. All of these can be answered with a phrase rivaling the composition in it’s simplicity: No. It’s also worth noting that any Boxer or Dictator worth anything could totally devastate a Shoto that refuses to waver from this “winning strategy”. Perhaps the piece should have been titled “Scrub Juice”.

Title: Winning Strategy Artist: Buck Fiddy Medium: Ink on Whale Hide Price:$$60 Billion
Detail 1	Detail 2

That brings week one of the Arm The Stupid Invitational Art Tournament to a close. Be sure to vote in our comments section to indicate which painting you enjoyed more, so that we can callously disregard your opinion and arbitrarily award prizes.

Some of you may remember my old blog here, and you might recall a little series I called Public Enemy, in which I would act like a dick to strangers on the internet and post about it. Well, I’m still a dick to strangers, and it’s high time I started flaunting it more. That said, here you go.

Nigerian scammers are commonplace on the internet nowadays, and many of us know at least one retard person who has been drawn in by the charming broken English of a West African charlatan. Despite this, I didn’t receive my first scam attempt until a few days ago, which, quite honestly, had me feeling pretty down. Why was I being snubbed by these brilliant entrepreneurs? Was stealing my money somehow beneath you? Rest assured, it ain’t. An upstanding gentleman named “ZANKO ALI” (Yes, it’s all in upper case. That must be the syntax over there.) contacted me on July 23rd with an offer that I couldn’t refuse.

This was the first I heard from Zanko, the man who would change my life.

Click to make Huge

No, I’m not going to bother censoring this dickhead’s information, he’s a thief. I replied as soon as I could with this:

Click to make Huge

Yes, I removed my e-mail and signature. Hypocrisy, thy name is Internet. I was initially worried that I might be coming on a little strong with this approach, but I thought it would be funniest if it paid off. Some time later, I was rewarded with this reply.

Click to make Huge

Right for the jugular! Zanko wastes no time in trying to extract sensitive information from me with his terrible language skills. Note that he sent this reply from another throwaway e-mail address. That fills me with confidence, I gotta say. Note also that he says “my dear” to me like, three times. Not creepy at all, dude. Yecch. His diction in this letter is incredible, too, with such gems as “i will advice you on what to respond to them” and “i will come down to your country for the sharing of the fund according to our impute”. What the fuck does that last one even mean? As an aside, I don’t think success.no is affiliated in any way with our buddy Zanko.

Here’s the latest reply I’ve sent him. This should generate an equally ridiculous response, so stay tuned for updates.

Click to make Huge

Canadian 13 inch tall bear, Wikkee!, met supporters at his home in River City, Ontario, on 4-9-2009, to announce his candidacy for the Parliament of Canada. Wikkee! is running under the Decepticon Party of Canada banner.

As a candidate for the Decepticon Party of Canada (DPC), Wikkee! seeks to prepare our national government for it’s role as a puppet regime for the Decepticons, a race of sentient transforming robots from the planet Cybertron. “I believe that it’s in Canadians’ best interest to bow to mighty Megatron,” Wikkee! said. “Citizens should be aware of the benefits a robotic government can offer, as well as the resulting technological advancements.

“For decades, our government has been plagued with incompetence and corrupted by the kind of greed that only a human could fall prey to. It has left moral and financial decisions up to individuals incapable of preparing their own taxes, and we’re seeing the consequences of that now. Regulations should be completely binary.”

The DPC promises to slash military funding in an attempt to reduce resistance to our Cybertronian overlords once they attack, and re-allocate that money towards a new educational cirriculum that promises to enrich children’s minds and give them the best possible chance at survival in a post Robots-in-Disguise world. The DPC has also promised 500 000 new jobs for Canadians, working in the Energon mines to provide our new leaders with sustenance.

Recent polls show that surrendering our country to robotic aliens is a popular idea amoung French-Canadians and conspiracy theorists. The DPC hopes to snatch up supporters from the now defunct “Social Darwinist Party of Canada” and “TXT MSGNG PRTY OF CNDA” parties.

HAIL WIKKEE!

ACT 00101011010: People who Have Glass Bones Shouldn’t Throw Houses
by Wikkee!

With that, the rock begins to levitate and glow, releasing a potent poison that will kill anyone who inhales it. Shocked, the Incans gasp in unison once again, killing them all instantly. Regrettably, an ancient Incan curse stipulates that once all the Incas are truly dead, the entire galaxy will be shrink wrapped by cosmic forces and left in a gigantic refrigeration unit until the end of time. By coincidence, at the very moment this occurs, time ends and the scene fades.