Bless your heart — your complaint's been filed right between a cicada's Yelp review and a hen's speeding ticket.
Oh, well, that's... noted. I'll put it right here next to the hotdish. We'll get to it.
Your complaint's gonna get about as much attention as a coyote howling at a parking meter.
Your complaint has been auto-routed to /dev/null. Estimated response time: never.
The copperhead filed a noise complaint about the banjo. The banjo didn't stop.
Your complaint's bigger than it needs to be. Very Texas of it.
Take it up with the bodega cat. He's been here longer than you and does not care.
Don't call the alligator big-mouth till you've crossed the river — and baby, you haven't crossed.
Away an bile yer heid. The complaints office is a pub now.
May your complaint live a long life and never be answered — God love you.
A complaint! Finally, something familiar. Sit down. Eat. Complain. This is what we do.
Complaint department is bear. Bear is on break. Break started in 1991.
Your Beschwerde has been assigned ticket number 847,293. Operating hours concluded permanently last Tuesday.
A complaint? How very American. In France, we simply exhale in the direction of our dissatisfaction.
That's like telling nonna her sauce needs salt — the wooden spoon comes out, three saints get invoked.
El que con lobos anda, a aullar se enseña — you walked into this voluntarily, amigo.
Mate, your complaint's been chucked in the same bin as a koala's performance review. Nobody's reading it.
Your complaint is in di same pot where Anansi tried to keep all di wisdom — upside down under a tree.
The dog barks, but the caravan moves on.
The nail that sticks up gets hammered down. Your complaint is sticking up very high.
File it again tomorrow, beta — inshallah someone will read it by Diwali.
The tortoise says your complaint will be processed at tortoise speed — which is the only speed there is.