In recent days, legions of readers have called the bookstore, demanding refunds for "A Million Little Pieces." A few callers have threatened to sue if we refuse to humor them. Restraining my impulses to educate the general public on the nature of a viable tort claim (duty! breach! causation! damages!), I have politely informed them that we refuse to negotiate with literati terrorists. (Little do these people know that in the name of customer service, our sycophantic managers stretch the boundaries of the return policy to the extent that they'd probably be willing to take back books written on vellum; forget about a two-month-old paperback.)
I've been pondering a list of things for which I feel I'm far more legitimately entitled to a refund:
>11th grade Advanced Placement history. We spent three months on the French and Indian War, and proceeded drift into dream interpretation. No, not an analysis of Freud's seminal work, but interpretation of our own personal dreams. I got a 4 on the AP test, and remain bitter, ten years after the fact. You cannot expect an untutored sixteen-year-old to successfully analyze the influence of John Maynard Keynes on the policies of Reaganomics, damn it!
>My law school apartment. Based on the vagaries of the heating mechanisms and the shifting wind direction, the climate vacillated between 85 and 55 degrees, with no stops at intermediate variables. Also, the shower mold quite possibly constituted an independent ecosystem, and my Styrofoam ceiling was in a state of consistent disintegration, leaving a film of toxic snow scattered across my furniture and belongings. The only plus was the reassurance of the near-constant police presence, due to the impressive persistence of the wake 'n' bakers across the hall in the face of oppressive legal consequences.
>The McDonald's birthday party I hosted, circa 1985. How did my parents convince me that being permitted to consume a hamburger constituted major partytime celebration? Besides, I'm pretty sure Grimace was wasted.
>"The Red Badge of Courage". The teaching of this novel in high school English classes is one of the primary travesties of the American educational system. When it was assigned in the ninth grade, I so desperately sought methods of procrastination and avoidance that I voluntarily completed an extra-credit assignment for my algebra class. And I was the kid who read all of the books on the "suggested, but not required" summer reading list. Slow learner that I am, I gave attempted to give this book a second go-round in college, based on a romantic interest's contention that it was his all-time favorite. I ditched both it and him before page 30.
>Several meals at L'auriol Plaza in Washington, DC. The food is nondescript, the service is lackluster, and there's not even a chimera of ambiance. And yet, I keep returning. Have they managed to turn their tacos into heroin delivery devices? What gives?
By my calculations, the universe owes me something in the vicinity of $17,970. Pay up! I am not afraid to resort to utilization of the judicial system for the enforcement of my rights.
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