But I'm done.
I'm not going to fight this any more.
I'll tell you why.
Once upon a time, about a hundred and fifty years ago, there lived a man named John Henry. John Henry worked for the rail road. He was tall, broad shouldered and adorned with muscles upon muscles. He would stand out in the sun, sweat glistening on his bare back and heave a mighty hammer, laying down rail road track.
Then one day they brought in a machine. They said it could lay track even faster than John Henry. Well, they had a race. The machine was a blur! Pounding spikes into the ground like a sewing machine. But John Henry had a hammer in each hand and with a furious pitch out paced the machine and won.
Exhausted, his mighty muscles spent, he sat down trying to catch his breath. He looked up at the machine operator who slipped from his chair, picked up his jacket and headed home to dinner.
Sweat poured from John Henry's brow. He had beaten the machine, but the machine won.
And there, John Henry died.
SEARS is imortal. They have time and millions of dollars to spend and in the end, if they ever fixed my gutter, would be only out a couple hundred bucks, but me? How much is my time worth? Each time I call I'm spending two hours of my life, my very finite life, to speak to a polite, lying, wage slave. How many of those do I have before I'm victorious, laying dead at the side of the rail road track?
I have other stuff to do.
You win this round, SEARS. You get to lie, cheat, have un-insured trucks. You win.
I have other things to do.