My Dear Tobias,
Your letter inquiring as to my whereabouts has not, as you may have imagined, gone unnoticed. No, it reposed on my desk, a languid beacon of hope for Good Times Returning. Where, you rightly queried, have I been? My dear fellow, really! If I were to tell you I would, as a kind friend used to say, have to kill you. At the time I took the gentle hint and continued by asking for his strategies for the successful cultivation of nasturtiums, the evidence for which gracefully enfolded the post behind his head. Do likewise, being so good as the leave the matter alone, and I will not contradict your imagining that I have been hiding from mobs of beautiful women clamoring for my attention. What can I say if that is what you choose to think.
Truly, old friend, what awakened my alarm enough to attach pen to paper was an article that smacked in the face as I attempted to enjoy my morning news with coffee. I nearly spilled the precious drink, if that speaks anything. “Police Pepper Spray Rowdy Shoe Shoppers in Seattle,” is the headline causing chaos. Fighting! Incarceration! How horrible, I thought to myself, if Tobias has been placed in such a compromising position! His age, his dignity! His love of warm Danish at eleven o’clock with Earl Grey minus sugar plus cream! All this, pitted against a pretentious pair of Air Jordans? Surely my breath failed me and my knees emulated the quivering reserved for Christmas puddings. Would he, I asked myself, have gone This Far? Is it possible that your footwear fetish could have become so colossal that it decrees you decorum, controls your conscience, rules your reason?
No, whispered the Voice of Reason, he hates crowds.
True. And, above all, he is a gentleman! And no gentleman would ever be up at four in the morning! At least, for a pair of overpriced sports shoes that can only be acceptably worn on a basketball court. A sale on Allen Edmonds Penny Loafers, maybe. But never for footwear unable be worn to at least three different types of occasions. We gentlemen have, after all, our Limits.
But really, old boy, this Christmas shopping-meets-pepper spray craze is getting out of hand. Does this, one asks, follow along the lines of the Truth of Christmas? (Which is, I was informed the other day, a pickle. No, no, not an enigma—the vinegarized crunch in your sandwich variety. It had something to do about a pickle hanging in one’s tree, something, something, the first duck to find it gets something, something, something. Hmm. Why a pickle? And does it drip on the packages? It is, of course, my personal opinion that when someone determined that pieces of the Lord’s Creation should be soaked in vinegar for extended periods of time, the purpose of this procedure was to provide edible enjoyment, not tree embellishments. Do correct me if I am wrong.) I am afraid, dear fellow, that I have trouble sympathizing with the throngs quarreling around the “true meaning” of Christmas—for goodness’ sakes, it’s a birthday, The Birthday, after all! What is there to debate? Celebrate and give thanks, for the Child is born—Immanuel!
Ah, I see that the post is almost come, so I will conclude my statements and eagerly await your reply confirming that my aforementioned fears were misplaced. I must say, it is good to be back in communication with the world.
Give your Aunt Bertha my sincerest thanks for the meatloaf—I am finding it most useful, as my previous doorstop was surreptitiously consumed by a visiting vegetarian. I am enclosing, along with the article link that gave me such cause for pause, a pinch of catnip to lighten Pongo’s holiday.
I toast your health and prosperity. Merry Christmas.
Yours, &c.,
Joe Post
http://news.yahoo.com/police-pepper-spray-rowdy-shoe-shoppers-seattle-134554232.html
Joe Post 