Dear Jerk Faces,

My name is Nathan Jordan. You may have heard of me. I’ve written you a letter every single day for the last eight months. All my queries have gone ignored and unanswered; hence, I must now take the drastic measure of airing my grievances in this public forum. I warn you all now; it’s not going to be pretty.

I have but one question: Who was the frickin’ genius that decided that it was okay to discontinue the production of Zima?

Let me tell you about my favorite thing in the world: take a sour-apple Jolly Rancher and drop it in a bottle of Zima. Well, that was my favorite thing in the world. Thanks a lot, piss knuckles. Let me ask you, former makers of Zima, what your favorite thing in the world is? Maybe it’s Care Bears. What if I told you that all the Care Bears were dead?  Well, thanks to people like you, all the love in the world has been replaced with anger and sadness, and the Care Bears can’t live off of caring anymore, so they’ve all starved to death.

Let me give you some background information about myself so you can understand where I’m coming from. I’ve been a loyal Zima drinker for 12 years now. Back when I was in college in the 90s, nothing said “cool” like a bottle of Zima in one hand and a Misty cigarette in the other. These days, Zima is the only thing I can drink. I don’t like beer because it’s not “alternative” enough, and water seems rather, well, watered-down. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t really get out of bed in the morning unless I have a nice, crisp, refreshing Zima to kick-start my day. I even have a Zima tattoo. You can’t see it because it’s clear, but that sucker cost me $325 in Tijuana. Now thanks to you assholes, I have to spend another $500 getting it removed from my ankle so I don’t have to look at a constant reminder of what I can’t have. I really feel like my best friend spit in my face. Or at least I feel like what I would imagine it would be like to have a friend, and then to have that friend spit in my face. It’s not good.

And now I’m really screwed because my emergency stockpile of Zima has finally dried up. I’m left with nothing but an extra-spacious bomb shelter in my backyard. To be specific, here’s what I have left, or should I say all I have left: one-and-half cases of  Zima, three bottles of Zima Light (for the days I’m feeling bloated), and one bottle of Zima Pineapple Citrus which I’m saving for my wedding night.