Dear Jim,
As you know, we are currently experiencing an armistice in an escalating war of who can give each other the worst possible gifts. I fired the opening shots when Justin and I lived in Korea, and I gave you a pink necktie with rhinestone paisleys. You retaliated by wearing the tie to church and getting cast in the Easter pageant. I then upped my game with a boxed set of underwear by the Korean brand "Body Gay." You saw that and raised by bringing me back a "Bush Lover" shirt from South Africa. At that point we declared a truce.
Well, my dear brother, TRUCE NO MORE. I have in my hands the worst possible Christmas gift, dredged from the seedy depths of this classy-on-the-surface archipelago. If our struggle is World War II, this gift is Stalingrad. (I'm the Russians.) If this is the Cold War, I'm thwarting your blockade of the Federal Republic of Germany by landing one plane every thirty-six seconds in West Berlin. (You're the Russians this time.) This gift is the apotheosis of gift horribleness.
How horrible is this gift? I bought it Sunday at the flea market, and the vendors appeared genuinely distressed to discover that they actually possessed this item for sale. They tried to convince me that I couldn't possibly want this item and suggested an alternate purchase. They charged me a dollar and felt guilty about it. I've been cleaning it for twenty minutes and it's still not clean.
What is it? Oh, my dear brother, that is for Christmas morning to know, and you to regret finding out!
YOUR MOVE.
Yours,
Sister
No comments:
Post a Comment