From Dead to Killed

Decided that I needed a new electric razor. You know your razor has turned to the dark side when it begins nicking you to the point you bleed.

“I am your razor, Tom!”


Okay, enough with the Star Wars-like dialogue.

Spent twenty bucks on one that I believed would last me at least a couple of years. Once home, I plugged it in and let it charge.

Twenty-four hours later, I unplugged it, flipped the tab to the on position, and nothing. Plugging it back in didn’t help it either.

Again nothing.

So I put everything back in the bag, including the hardened plastic that took me fifteen minutes to cut through, and took it back to the store. Finally, I get to the return counter and explain how it does not work.

The woman looked at the hardened plastic, back at me, then back to the plastic casing it was packaged in, and said, “We can’t take this back the container is too damaged.”

“Say what?” I shouted.

The assistant manager heard and asked, “What’s the trouble?”

The returns woman explained, I explained, and the assistant manager explained, “I’m sorry, but she’s new here. Come down here, and I’ll get you your money back.”

I felt suddenly killed with kindness.


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