Dear Mr. Gatto,

I am sick and tired unto death of your damned phone calls. I can pretty much predict on any given day when my phone rings, it is one of your campaign monkeys calling for the fifteen-millionth-effing time to tell me about Mike Gatto and to make sure I have gotten my goddamn ballot.

I’ve asked to be taken off the list. I’ve even asked you personally to take me off of your list when I called back one day after seething with resentment at yet another call from your campaign. I caught you unawares and dressed you down for your infuriating techniques. You were a nice man. You heard my anger and apologized. I thought maybe you’d get it.

You didn’t.

I hate your campaign so much that it’s seeped into how I see you as a candidate — inept, uncaring, irresponsible, annoying as hell. You might think you’re running for a the primary for the State Assembly special election, but you’ve already won a seat in the House of Aggravating Douche Bags. I usually care quite strongly about politics and always make sure to vote, but this time I’m especially looking forward to it. Why? So that I can NOT select your name. And also so that I will no longer receive calls every freaking day begging me to make sure I have my ballot. So that I can vote. For you.

Which I won’t.

And I hope this little missive takes wings on the Intarwebs so that no one else does, either.