Dear Uppity Piano Tuning Bastard:

I realise that piano tuning is a dying art. In fact, this is probably why we are stuck with you and your stellar personality, which is likely to soon manifest into its own entity if you do not surgically remove the stick from your ass in the near future. Clearly you being two people at once makes you on some level superior to me (at least in terms of density). However, keep something in mind. Yes, I may not be able to stand there with a tuning fork and a set of pliers and make a Steinway sound like a choir of angels (mostly because I don't have that sort of anal retentive patience), but that does not mean I am an idiot.

I put you on hold. I know, how rude of me, but I was trying to find information on you. You hung up. We did not "lose our connection." You hung up on me. And I am fully aware of that fact (just as anyone who has a concept of what a flashing light on a phone suddenly disappearing means would be. Dispatching is not rocket science.)

I told you we'd send someone over. You asked when. I answered as soon as possible. Apparently you need to know an exact time frame, despite the fact that you are not even at the fucking door yet. I must have forgotten that time bends for you. God Himself will descend from upon high with a key made from the hopes and dreams of children everywhere simply so you may enter our Student Center and tune a beat-up baby grand that will likely get more use as a massive rolling hour'dourve tray than a musical instrument.

That's right. All your hours of twanging and tuning are supporting cheese and crackers. Now take your stellar personality and get the fuck off my campus.

No love,
The girl who just had a five-minute "let's make fun of you" fest with her boss on our radio system. (He doesn't like you either.)