Dear Dyson:
You have made my life miserable.
OK, that’s an exaggeration. Not my life. But my life when it comes to vacuuming.
Four months ago, shortly after we moved to Southern California, the wife and I hit up Costco in search of a new vacuum. While roaming the aisles, we ran into a box containing your new DC 65. And, man, did it look good. Modern. Sleek. We went online to read the reviews—excellent. Yeah, the thing wasn’t cheap. But a good vacuum can go 15 years if you treat it well.
So I bought the DC 65.
And I hate it.
Allow me to define this hatred. I hate zits, I hate my painful lower back, I hate sales calls. I really hate golf, the smell of tuna, anything containing bacon. I really, really, really hate wasting water, Donald Rumsfeld, he Burger King drive-thru. I abhor Dick Cheney and my seventh grade history teacher. I despise cottage cheese, Pat Robertson and anyone who damns gays to an eternity in hell.
The DC 65 is even worse than that. Literally, I would rather hang out than Pat Robertson than use your vacuum.
Why? Because your sucker sucks. It picks up three out of every 10 pieces of whatever on the ground. The handles are way too low, so people like myself (anyone over 5-foot-8) has to bend over to vacuum. It pushes more dirt than it absorbs. It’s clumsy and awkward and just never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever fucking works. This morning, in a final DC 65 straw, I broke a glass, sliced open my hand, then used your piece of crap to clean up the shards.
It failed—miserably.
I’m gonna bring the thing back to Costco today. I have no box, no receipt, little hope.
God, I hate the DC 65.
Hate it.
Love,
Jeff
