I know that your time is very limited, and by choosing to spend some of it reading this essay, you have, in essence, made a purchase. I want to assure you this is a high-quality essay manufactured in America of 100 percent American raw materials. Every effort has been made to respect the environment in the manufacture of this column. For example, no exotic woods from our endangered rain forests were used in the table on which my computer sat while I typed this essay. Every word and sentence was checked for quality by an editor and Tabitha (not her real name), a friend of my mothers who used to teach high school English.
Despite all these diligent efforts, however, there may be an error in here somewhere, which I will gladly fix because this essay is guaranteed to be free of all defects. In order to do that, I will need some information. Your full name, address, dress or suit size, mother’s maiden name–actually her maid’s name will be fine too, and while you’re at it, how about throwing in your mother’s favorite meatloaf recipe, and anything else you’d like me to know about you. Then I can mail you a correction as stated in the terms of my warranty, which runs for 90 days or three months, whichever comes first.
However, if you’d like the peace of mind of knowing that this essay will still work correctly after 90 days, you might want to consider purchasing an extended warranty service contract. Let’s say, for example, you cut out this column to send to your grown child, who has moved as far away from you as possible because you made him read silly clippings like this one, and you place it in a drawer and don’t find it for a year or so. Some of the information, dates, relevant examples, etc. may require updating. If you purchase a service contract, I will mail you an update pronto, thus ensuring that your column remains in perfect working order. I offer a one-year contract for just $59.99, less than you spend on pantyhose in a year. (Much less if you’re a male). Or for just an additional $19.99 you can ensure the accuracy and relevance of this column for a full three years. And today, we are offering a special “whole house” extended warranty service contract. For $99.99, which is less than $100, you can get a one-year contract on any essay of mine you happen to have lying around any room of your house, from the bathroom to the bird cage.
If you are still reading at this point, you have probably gathered that a) this is a satire or b) I am offering you something of negligible value for a premium. If you chose b), to you I say “Congratulations. You are definitely smarter than a hundred or so million other Americans who own service contracts or extended warranties on things that absolutely, positively never break.”
Take the service contract I bought the other day and later tried to get out of to no avail when my wife made it clear that I was a total and complete fool because the only way you could stop a dehumidifier from working is with a nuclear bomb. I immediately panicked because the contract I bought did not cover me in case of nuclear attack. Earthquake–yes. Tornado–yes. Insect infestation–yes.
To prove her point, my wife took me out to some house sales. Sure enough, there were 14 dehumidifiers for sale, ranging in price from “Make me an offer” to “Will pay you 50 bucks to haul it out of here provided you sign this liability form for any injury you may incur.” Some of these dehumidifiers were quite old and still working, still sucking valuable kilowatts out of people’s wallets each and every month. One looked as if it pre-dated electricity. I actually thought it looked as if it pre-dated agrarian society, but I thought that might sound like a bit of an exaggeration to you, the careful reader, who was astute enough to recognize my offer of a service contract on this column for what it was: a crass attempt to exploit your sense that if something can go wrong in your life, it will.
The problem is that the things that can and will go wrong do not come with extended warranties or service contracts. Pantyhose, for example. How can a woman spend $9.99 on a pair of pantyhose that weighs less than the eyelash of a hummingbird? I have no idea. But that’s not even my point. It’s bad enough that they cost approximately $775,000 per pound, but what’s worse is the fact that they have a life span of three minutes. A statistically significant number of pantyhose don’t even make it out of their packaging without running. Women would be much happier and more well-adjusted if pantyhose came with extended warranties. For a few bucks extra, the manufacturer might agree to replace any damaged pantyhose for up to a year unless they were not used according to instructions. If, for example, you tried to return a pair that were used to cover your face during a robbery and contained bullet holes, that pair would not be replaced free of charge.
If men had to wear pantyhose, I can assure you they would be made of steel mesh and last for seven years, which, incidentally, is the expected life span of a man’s underpants, at least the elastic waistband part.
I also think the world would be a better place if my kid’s Nikes came with a lifetime warranty. If I could have signed up at the hospital during labor for a lifetime Nike replacement program, whereby I paid an enormous sum, say, $1 million, for the guarantee that whenever my kid’s Nikes wore out, they would be replaced free, I would be ahead of the game today. And my kid hasn’t even reached puberty yet.
The next time one of those appliance guys at Sears tells you that Kenmore washers and dryers never break down, that there are documented cases of some from the Napoleonic era that are still working fine, and then in the next sentence tells you about the service contract that covers anything that goes wrong for the next three years, which he can offer you for a price that is roughly twice the cost of the washer and dryer, take out this column and hand it to him. Did I mention that my one-year service contract includes a thousand reprints?
