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Thursday, June 26, 2003
Dear PBT Stine,
I write in inquiry of your health and state of general being. If you are dying, or if you have perhaps sprained something, I would suggest you immediately report this condition to a superior (at this point in your career I presume this includes everyone else).
If Rocky the Mutt does not stop growling at my ankle, I am going to land him a swift kick in the muzzle. I write this letter to you, O Cousin, from atop the island in our Aunt Pammy's kitchen. In order to birth their hatchling, Pam and Chris entirely abandoned me to my own devices today. The fruit of their labour, Rowan Elizabeth Thornton, emerged from Pam's over-extended womb at appoximately 9:25 this evening (former Senator Strom Thurmond, by the way, kicked the bucket at 9:45, as reported in timely fashion by CNN).
Your dear mother phoned to inform me that our freshest cousin weighs eight pounds, nine ounces, extends twenty-one inches in body length, and possesses a lovely head of auburn hair (which ties her to Chris for all eternity). Her eyes, of course, could be any colour. If I was to pick a baby out of a store window (times they are a-changin'), I would choose one with green or violet eyes. I am a romantic that way.
Your mother hinted I write you a letter (as though you were in prison rather than boot camp, although to a civilian there's hardly a distinction between the two), "something entertaining". Unfortunately, PBT Stine, I feel incapable of fulfilling your mother's directive. The most entertaining thing I've observed lately has been our very pregnant Aunt Pam's often vain attempts to fling herself onto the floatie chair in her pool.
Upon further reflection I have concluded as well that, since you chose to attend a ten-week boot camp program (rather than loaf about like every other full-blooded American teenager), your conception of the word "entertaining" and my conception of the word "entertaining" represent near polar opposites on the Fun Spectrum. My ideas of fun include bewailing my fate, criticizing others, and sitting before the television hoping to catch a Marx Brothers film marathon on Turner Classic Movies.
For instance, I suspect you derive some sort of fulfillment from sweating. I must inform you truthfully that my feelings toward sweat, and physical activity in general, are mostly negative ones. I equate air conditioners with gills: if I did not have them, I would drown.
I thusly request you reply (if you are allowed to) and provide me with some details about how your life has been faring since I last saw you three or four years ago. On my end, I will donate some vital information about myself: |
