Dear Local Utility Company

Things had gotten dire.  The compressed air for my soda stream had been spent, and I was left with no choice but to venture out and replace it.  This involves traversing perhaps the most wicked and painstaking three mile drive one can endure through a small town.  First, one must cross the infamous "bypass" that has almost as heavy traffic as the road it is supposed to be a helpful alternative to.  Next, you must sit at least four minutes at the Five Point Intersection of Despair.  After a short delay at the Stoplight-of-Constant-Construction-and-Snotty-Tennis-Players -Watching-You-From-The-Tennis Courts-Next-To-The-Road, you must make a left hand merge, LEFT I SAY, onto one of the busiest roads in America.  Finally, you must contend with the traffic of the lost souls and demons leaving Walmart in order to make it to the relative peace and seclusion of the Staples parking lot.  Here, and only here, may you exchange your officially licensed Soda Stream carbonator for a replacement. 

Things began badly from the outset.  As I boarded my trusty Jeep, my stomach knotted as I found my pockets vacant of my Ipod, the only source for tasty and uplifting tunes.  Having long abandoned terrestrial radio, the only preset on my car radio is the station for the Phillies games.  It is on every button.  The only CD I had was a scarred and battle worn mix made for a trip to Atlantic City years before, and I was damned if I would return to the house, climb the stairs, and retrieve my Ipod.  Time was of the essence.  I climbed into the car, inhaled deeply, and hit the scan button on the FM dial.  Apollo, god of travel, smiled upon me this day.  The third station held ominous silence for several moments, only to unleash the unmitigated fury and unabashed revelry of 80's supergroup Toto's Africa.  This journey would be prosperous.  I could not lose.

Together, Toto and I crushed the bypass beneath our heels.  We sailed unmolested through the Five Point Intersection of Despair, and we ignited the tennis courts at the S-o-C-C-a-S-T-P-W-Y-F-t-T- C-N-T-T-R in a blaze of purifying sound thanks to a blistering air key-tar solo.  Not even the dreaded left hand merge could phase us.  Toto and I were untouchable together.  As we crested the rise and entered the Staples parking lot, the final chorus entered a pitched fever, and as the final strains of the song echoed through the ears of the mortals enjoying their Quiznos subs, I exited my car, air canister held aloft, ready to kick ass, chew bugglegum, and make a small business transaction to allow me to make my own soda once again.

Unfortunately, like Icarus, I had flown too close to the sun.  As I swiped my credit card, mere seconds away from my goal, you murderous trolls at the Utilities company deigned to bring me back to earth.  I entered my debit code, returned my wallet to my pocket, and just as the machine was ready to print my receipt, the power was shut off to every business on the block.  Disbelieving, I asked if it had worked.  The man behind the counter told me no, and that I would need to leave with my old, nonworking carbonator.  Without power, there would be no transaction. It took me thirteen minutes to drive the three miles home, listening to the mournful wail of Billy Joel as he ate at an Italian restaurant.  I wasted a total of close to half an hour because you cannot keep the power on, one of your only jobs, aside from making sure no one poisons the town water supply.

You owe me my time back, as well as my pride, and a carbonator.  I will settle for the carbonator and the phone number of the lady behind the customer service counter at Staples.  You have 30 minutes.