Dear Swiftcover Insurance, and by extension, Iggy Pop

Swiftcover, the madness must stop.

When I’m watching television, every time the scheduled programing ends, there’s Iggy Pop, angry and shouting about insurance.

Swiftcover, no matter how much ad-time you’ve purchased, it won’t make your insurance products any more interesting to the general public.

Why do you believe a gaunt, sinewy rock star that resembles a breast-less Wicked Witch of the West is the best possible face for your company? Your company is not that rebellious or it wouldn’t be turning a profit.

You’d be better off having the gnarled wreckage of  car with the spongy crimson remains of a driver hanging out of it with bottle of Jack Daniels in one barely-attached hand as a spokesthing. The wails of the family choking to death on each other’s vomited blood in a crushed minivan opposite would be preferable to hearing Iggy Pop utter, “It’s time to r-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-d-d-d-d-e” ever again.

Just so you know…

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Dear Cough Medicine Jim

Howdy. It’s been a long time. But despite my best efforts we always spend a few days together this time of year. We enjoy some steaming mugs of Neo Citran together, down a Tylenol cough cap and do some DVD-watching. Later, when everything settles down, we listen to some sad music and muse briefly on the nature of the universe. You got some profound insight to share with the world Cough Medicine Jim. But understand our time needs to be short. Any longer and I’d be unable to reintegrate with society.

I’d need to give up my gainful position at the office. Any semblance of an intimate relationship would be obviously unrealistic to pursue. My bank account would slowly dwindle into the red.  I’d eventually succumb beside a lonely dumpster located in downtown Edmonton with a very sticky medicine beard.

When its time to say goodbye, don’t make it harder than it needs to be.

Sincerely,

Fergis

To the Asshole that Peed on My Car

I was headed to the fridge for a little late night snack when I walked past my window and saw you relieving yourself on my vehicle last night. You and you’re friends thought it was pretty funny.

Let me be the first to tell you that my turn-of-the-century Pontiac Grand Prix has a bad ass voodoo hex on it. Soon all your luck will turn for the worst. Your girlfriend will breakup with you, dumping your ass for somebody that doesn’t piss on cars, making you homeless in the process. You’ll start taking pills and drinking too much. You’ll lose your job and all your friends. You’ll be all alone in a very big and very terrifying world. You’ll eventually stab yourself in the eye with a shard of a bottle of Baby Duck and bleed to death underneath a dumpster. But not before you shrink to the size of a chronically ill cancer patient. Other homeless people and passing college kids will relieve themselves on you like you relieved yourself on my automobile.

You can look forward to a brief existence full of disappointment, shame and anguish.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

PS: It was actually me that peed on the Grand Prix…I’m really sorry. Please don’t curse me.