Dear Henry d’Hoover,
You’re only a hoover (or a vacuum cleaner but you’re British, so I will stick with hoover) and yet you can make me so angry that I want to explode. Or make you explode. You might remember that time that I yelled and kicked you? It was my secret hope that you would cease to exist in that moment. But you didn’t. Maybe you want me to apologize – I did kick you. I have to say, you can stop waiting, because that isn’t going to happen. You brought it on yourself, Henry, by being a little prick.
Why, Henry? I actually liked you at first! I thought you had such a sweet little smile and cooky eyes that you must be fun to have around. Oh, how wrong a person can be. I know now that your smile isn’t sweet at all but a smug smirk you wear in anticipation of my rage. You know exactly when and how to anger me most, whether it’s by dropping a tube as I’m cramping to reach under a bed or by tripping over your own GODDAMN cord AGAIN.
I mean, really, Henry. It’s an appendix and it’s attached to you, surely you should be able to hump along without falling and rolling over on your side at the very sight of the cord in front of you. It shouldn’t be necessary! I’m almost positive you do it because you’re either lazy or cruel. Or both. And then you dare SMILE UP AT ME and expect me to put you up right, only so you can do it again 10 minutes later.
And why, Henry, why can’t you keep yourself together? Falling apart at the most inopportune moments… It’s like you can just release your limbs at will. Surely it can’t give you that much pleasure to force me to bend over and pick you up and stick you back together countless times every day?
I know we need to maintain a professional relationship you and I, but you’re not making it easy for me here. You’re a sadistic, evil bastard. I can only hope that this letter makes you think twice about the path you’ve chosen and find it in your heart to be a little kinder to the rest of us.