Dear Supreme Ruler of the Technological Universe:
Please. I implore you. Do whatever it takes to repair my most beloved and daily-utilized piece of electronic equipment, hereafter referred to as "Pro."
Pro is dying. It's a lingering, painful death. Painful for me. Pro sees spots. Pro HAS spots. Everybody withing eyeshot sees the pox that has befallen Pro. Each day, Pro is one step closer to succumbing to his affliction. Each day, 200 eyes and 100 mouths plead with me to put Pro out of our misery.
It has been 26 days since I consulted a specialist in an effort to cure Pro of what ails him. Pro had only 100-or-so spots at that time. Now Pro looks like a map of the universe. That's 26 days. Which is 20 school days. Times 100 mouths. That means 2000 comments have flooded my ears since Pro fell ill. "Hey! There are more spots! Look at Pro now. I know what's going to happen. Pro will be one big spot. Then he'll be DEAD!"
Please. I implore you. Bump Pro to the top of your transplant list. Surely he (and we) have suffered enough. What could be more pressing after 26 days? Is there an all-electronic death panel of sorts? I don't care if you have to send your minion during after-school hours, clad in a fur-lined parka, flashlight strapped to his head, puffing exhalations like Dennis Quaid in The Day After Tomorrow to combat the programmed thermostat. Pro must be treated. Stat! Before he dies, and I am forced to soldier on like an 1800s school marm.
Please. I implore you.