“Good morning, ma’am. May I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to return this president, please.”
“What seems to be wrong with it?”
“It’s defective.”
“How so?”
“Well, first of all, see the way its head is attached? I think it’s missing a few screws.”
“Where?”
“Right here.”
“No, they’re all here—they’re just loose. That can be fixed. Anything else?”
“Yes. Ever since I got it, it hasn’t worked the way I’d like it to. When I turn this switch on—like this— it ouch! grabs me. See that? If any of my women friends are around, it grabs them, too.”
“I think I might be able to fix that. Here...let me see what I can do. Yes, I think it’ll be OK if this bolt is adjusted. Hmm...”
“What’s the matter?”
“That’s odd—it doesn’t seem to want to move to the left—it only turns to the right.”
“And there’s something else, too. It…well, it’s almost as if it has a mind of its own. You see, I keep a clean house, but right after I brought this president home, it started to dig into my beautiful carpet—destroying it, actually. I had to watch it every minute because I knew if I turned my back, there’d be nothing but oily messes all over the house. And those are so ugly and hard to get out, you know.”
“I remember hearing the same complaint about an older model of the same president about 10 years ago. Why did you buy this one in the first place?”
“I didn’t. I had my mind made up on another president, one made by another company, but someone else bought this one for me. It's an American product, but it came from a plant in Russia. I thought it was kind of cute at first—you know, with its little hands and that orange stuff on its head, but I knew there was something wrong with it from day one.
“What made you think so?”
“Well, the instructions on the box listed all of the things it should do, but it doesn't do much of anything except make a mess of things or just lie around. I think there’s something seriously wrong with its internal workings. There's this other weird thing, too…it babbles all the time. It doesn't say anything intelligible or sensible, but every morning about 3:00 am, it goes 'tweet, tweet, tweet.' I realize now that it’s not the right president for what I need it to do, so I want to return it and get the one I originally wanted.”
“I’m sorry to tell you this, ma’am, but there’s a no-return policy on this particular president.”
“I can’t return it? But it’s practically brand new—it’s hardly been used! I want to send it back before it does any more damage!”
“I understand, but we can’t do it. Too bad you weren’t able to get the president you chose in the first place–that company makes very good ones. In fact, their last model was one of the best ever—they’ll be hard-pressed to make another of its kind again.. Even when people abused it—and sometimes they were downright brutal to it—kicking it, throwing it on the floor, stomping on it—it still kept right on working and doing what it was designed to do.”
“Can I trade this one in for the last model?”
“No…I’m sorry, but your president is non-exchangeable. Besides, the last model has been retired. Don’t be too discouraged, though—the companies will eventually bring out other models. Their new ones will be available in 2021.”
“Four years! I have to wait four years? Do you have any suggestions what I could do in the meantime?”
“Well, you could write a letter to the manufacturers. If enough of their customers are dissatisfied, they just might recall it. Right now, though, there’s really nothing I can do for you. I’m sorry I can’t help.”
“Oh, that’s OK. Thanks anyway. My fault in accepting it at all and waiting to see if it was any good. So, I guess I’m stuck with it, huh?”
“I’m afraid so, ma'am. I'm very much afraid so.”