Dear Can Opener,
Do I ask too much of you? Are my expectations too high? Did I want you to sing me an aria? Write me a sonnet? Clean the gutters? Buy me a mocking bird? No, I did not. I merely wanted you to assist me in opening a can. I didn't want romance and moonlight and walks in the country. I wanted No Salt Added Wild Pacific Sockeye Salmon on toast.
Your part in this was small. You had only to shear through the metal along the top of this can of delicious low sodium protein while I turned your handle. It is the task for which you were designed. Your raison d'etre if you will. It is a task others of your kind perform with aplomb.
Your predecessor, for example, opened hundreds, perhaps thousands of cans. Everything from imported crab meat to generic chicken noodle soup. We had some good times, that can opener and I. Some dark times as well, I must admit. (Who could forget the Putrid Tomato Incident of 1993? Not I.)
Sadly, dear Can Opener, that other, better can opener is no longer with us. It met its demise at the jaws of a cattle dog named Bruce, who found its brazen red handle a temptation not to be resisted. I was sad, Can Opener. Sad, but not inconsolable, for the very next day you came into my life, shiny and full of promise.
But you have failed me, Can Opener.
I don't expect you to make opening cans entertaining, or even easy. I would settle for possible. But no, Can Opener, even this small task is beyond your abilities. Did you open my can? No, you did not. What you did instead was mangle the can to such a degree it has been rendered unopenable to even a superior can opener, such as the one I borrowed from the neighbour. So now, instead of a belly full of whole grains and oceany goodness, I am left with nothing but crushing disappointment and the lingering odor of fish and despair.
Thanks for nothing, Can Opener.
