A Letter to Krazy Glue

Krazy Glue
One Easton Oval
Columbus, OH 43291


Dear Krazy Glue,

My name is Rusty. And last week I celebrated my 52nd birthday at the Olive Garden.

I am writing in regards to the events of Tuesday, October 28th, 2008. It was on this evening that I found myself in the highly dangerous Pleasantville, NJ shopping center, a bottom-tier strip mall known for its ruthless Taco Bells and toothless prostitution rings. After dodging bullets and tumbleweed, I went into the K-Mart and picked up the following items: Krazy Glue (4 "single use" mini tubes), a pair of bejeweled mittens, Klondike Bars and That's So Raven season 6 on dvd. Then I headed home to get to glueing.

That's when things came UNGLUED. And FYI that pun IS intended.

I purchased your glue with the intention of repairing the damaged right wing of one of my prized porcelain fairy babies. (Wing broke while reenacting the great fairy babies war of 1473.) I was scheduled to show off this particular fairy at a porcelain fairy babies collectors meeting with the guys in exactly 45 minutes, so repairing the wing was simply fucking imperative.

I'm going to cut right to the chase. All four of the glue tubes ended up being dry, rubbery and useless, much like the food at Denny's. Now I feel dirty and used, much like the food at Denny's. You swindled me, conned me and ruined my life.

Because of your sucky glue, I was forced to show up to the porcelain fairy babies collectors meeting with a broken fairy baby. When I got up in front of the guys to present it, the wing fell off and shattered on the floor, as did my reputation. All of the guys started teasing me, "fairy fraud," "wingless Nazi" and "Mr. Mister" (the later insult was cleverly alluding to their 1985 hit, "Broken Wings.") Within moments, I was asked to leave the club forever.

I sat in the parking lot for hours, clutching my fairy babies, blubbering like a little girl, pondering the irony that your nonworking glue managed to get me into a sticky situation. That's when I was approached by a sympathetic hobo, who after hearing my story presented me with a dozen swigs of his backwashed-filled Whisky. I agreed, got drunk and passed out. After I woke up I stumbled home and found my wife in bed with another man. It was that hobo. He had told her of my story and she said she'd rather be with a dirty hobo than with a man who's the laughing stock of the fairy babies club.

In short, your commercials claim your glue can hold up a construction worker dangling under a beam, and yet, your glue was unable to keep me attached to the one thing that mattered most. My dignity.

Please send me coupons and an assortment of free gifts as compensation.


Love,

Rusty