A Christmas Thank-You Note
Hey Bill!
Just a note to thank you for your AMAZING gifts this year. You clearly went to a lot of trouble and I am truly touched. That being said, I do have a little constructive feedback.
So, twelve days ago, the partridge arrived, along with a small fruit tree, which was lovely. That being said, I’d like to respectfully suggest that you consider a conversation with a person before giving them a pet of any kind as a gift, but especially a non-migratory game bird that’s not really used to being in a cage. He’s very pretty, but always irritated—mostly at the sound of my voice, which is disconcerting.
Then, as you know, in the three ensuing days, more birds arrived. Two turtle doves, three French hens andfour calling birds. I tried to watch Happy Valley on Netflix, but between the British accents and the angry chirping, I couldn’t understand a word.
A week ago, the five rings arrived, which was such a wonderful respite from the avian theme, but weird because they were all the same, so I wasn’t sure if I should wear them all at once like brass knuckles, or what they meant, even. They look like wedding rings, and you know I’ve been dating Chad for two years so this caused a pretty tense discussion wherein he asked me if I put you up to it and whether I thought he couldn’t provide for me, which I sort of don’t, but that’s not the point and the tension really upset the birds so then Chad’s trying to defend his job at Best Buy over hundreds of caws and squawks and it finally made him crack and now he’s gone and he hasn’t texted me since. Which I guess is for the best since my text alert makes the French hens’ eggs drop and you know I’m vegan, but still.
In the next two days, six geese and a kiddie pool filled with seven fucking swans arrived and now I’m wondering why you hate me so much.
What, in any interaction I’ve ever had with you gave you the idea that I was interested in starting a bird sanctuary in my 600-square-foot house? Also, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Swans are viciously aggressive and there’s something about turtle doves that just sets them off. At one point I had to pull two of the swans off a bloody turtle dove and the partridge, (who I’ve called Chester), who had done nothing but coo at the wrong time.
My house is like Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, but with more birds.
I now have 8 stitches in my neck from multiple beak wounds, so I was on a lot of Vicodin when I opened the door the morning after the turtle dove massacre to find eight Lithuanian milkmaids who spoke no English and kept looking around my house for their cow assignment.
I’m not sure if you’re familiar with U.S. human trafficking laws, but I spoke to Lina and Jolanta’s husbands and they will be pressing charges. On the plus side, Milda was familiar with how to pluck and dress a goose, so we had a really delicious dinner that night.
I’m not sure what you had in mind for the nine strippers and ten Chippendales dancers dressed as British Lords that I was forced to sign for in the next couple of days, but they seemed to get along well with the milkmaids and they helped clean up the bird poop, so I let them stay. But now my house is like an oiled-up sex den and I’m never getting all that body glitter out of the carpet.
Thankfully, because of the cacophony of sex noises and bird calls, I didn’t hear the doorbell yesterday when the pipers showed up. I got a post-it that said they’re waiting at the Fedex warehouse so you should probably go sign for them. Unless you don’t want eleven pipers. And WHO WOULDN’T WANT ELEVEN PIPERS, RIGHT BILL?
That brings us to today. I don’t know what to say about today. I think you know I’ve had issues with drummers in the past, so sending a dozen of them to couch surf in my living room and toy with my emotions after Chad just left me feels less like a gift and more like a personal attack. Sure, they’d make good bird sitters for Chester and have really nice arm muscles, but I just don’t have that many Monster Energy Drinks or Fruit Loops.
None of that really matters, anyway, because the Department of Fish and Wildlife showed up this afternoon and arrested me for practicing Swan Husbandry without a permit.
So I’m spending Christmas in jail, which gave me a little time to think, and I just wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to keep Chester and at least three of the drummers. Chad never really “got” me and maybe you knew that.
I’m also hoping your last gift to me might be bail. My inmate commissary code is 43572.
Merry Christmas, and thanks for all the cool stuff.
Love,
Courtenay
Photo by Paul Haeberlin and used through Creative Commons.
