When you buy a faulty product, you can return it to the place you bought it and ask for a replacement. If the establishment is reasonable, they’ll allow and give you a normal replacement and take the issue up with the original supplier/manufacturer. Even if it’s a service, like electricity, you can approach the provider if you are not happy with the delivery, have a, hopefully, amiable discussion and they then sort you out if the fault is theirs.
If normal channels fail, there is always the social media option where you can create a storm and give their PR team mini heart attacks till they appease you. This is how the consumerism world deals with faulty products/services in this era, most of the time anyway.
Today morning I woke up, noticed it wasn’t raining, thanked physics for what would be a pleasant commute to work and began preparing myself for the day. Part of this preparation included breakfast and I’d decided to treat myself to a boiled egg. I put the egg in water and let it boil while I did other morning things. The problems began when the egg was ready for my consumption. If you have known potentially life-ending health conditions, I’d advise you stop reading here.
You guys, I cracked the egg so as to peel off the shell and to my shock, horror and dismay, found the shell contained 1/4 egg and 3/4 air. Singa it was half-half, I’d have only had shock and horror but it was 3/4 air so now I has to deal with dismay as well. Thank goodness it hadn’t rained that morning or I’d have probably died from too many negative emotions. Eh, what jujju was this? And more importantly, who was my millennial-self supposed to complain to? The overall producer of this egg was a hen on a farm somewhere. Taking it back to the supermarket and the supermarket returning it to the supplying farm might be easy, but imagine the task the farmer would have in order to identify the exact hen that was messing with my emotional balance.
So, here I am taking it to social media with the hope that enough of you will read this, feel what I felt and complain with me till the message gets to that sneaky hen on hen Facebook (beakbook?) As I typed this post, though, I over thought it and now I’m wondering why I’m even complaining in the first place. We basically practice forced abortion for hens when we eat their eggs so surely I have no right. I even feel like a horrible person now. Ah!
And on that bombshell, as you were…