Dear Sir or Madam,

Yes, I am aware that it was last Friday that was blackened by the bedlam of post-Thanksgiving shopping, but I am choosing to observe it this week. Because truly, with the exponential swelling of the Consumeristmas complex typified by the voracity of the regular buyophile, like in a TGIF’s in Roxbury, it’s always Black Friday. Incidentally, this current lapse of mine has nothing to do with the tryptophan-induced coma I descended into this past Thursday. Nothing at all.

I did awake on the floor of my foyer yesterday afternoon with no memory of how I had gotten there. My mouth, raw from the seven days of cunnilingus I had treated my Savonnerie to, somehow still held the flavour of the Beaujolais I’d enjoyed all too well at the feast of week prior. The fruity notes had been displaced by the coppery tones of dried blood, but a solid pumpkin pie belch removed all concern.

An attempt to stand and thus immediately recollect humanity ended in abrupt, spectacular failure. I discovered that I was very dehydrated. This followed, of course, considering my condition and the events leading up to it, but cognitive reasoning was difficult at the time, as I was very dehydrated.

Perching myself underneath the gilded faucet I had installed by the front entrance — for solicitors who wish to shake my hand — I gratefully lapped at the nectar of the tap, trying desperately to ignore the scant but all too present taste of the local impurities. After a few moments’ feverish slurping, however, the idea of ingesting water that did not even purport to be from France became unbearable and once again sensibilities prevailed over self-preservation.

Wrapping a cloak around my frail, thirsty frame, I shambled to a taximan and requested he take me to a convenience store located albeit not so conveniently outside of my general neighbourhood. I would not be seen in my current ruin, although I knew it would be a long ride. You know, you demand a sense of exclusivity and luxury in the community you choose to live in and before you know it, you need to take a taxi to purchase a gallon of milk that wasn’t squozen from New Delhi cows. I pointed to an establishment that had the least amount of shit scratched onto the windows, and threw a knot of bills at the cabbie. I deduced that in the time it would take him to work out that I overpaid, he could have easily made as much by finding another fare. Excellent.

The store did not have Perrier, nor did it have Evian or Sueur D’reine. Distraught, I picked up a jug of RC Water and employed a trick I learned from the mountain priests of Appalachia. Sketching the second secret cruciform of YHBH crudely with a store brand lipliner, I appealed anonymously to a neglected saint that he or she might bless my cheap water and make it more valuable. I think it worked. An unwed mother two aisles over suddenly miscarried.

Triumphant, but still crunchy and delirious with fatigue, I clutched my parcel to my stomach, which roared with want as I waited in the line of unimportants. “Can I help who’s next?” clucked Chavon, my indifferent savior. A pet peeve of mine peeved inside my head, and I could have ignored it, but as I continue to remind, I was very dehydrated.“You are aware that is not English, yes?”
“Fuh?”
“‘Can I help who’s next?’ That isn’t English.”
“Wha?”
“You could say for instance, ‘May I help whoever is next?’ or ‘May I help the one who’s next?’ or how about simply, ‘Who’s next?’”

This sentiment was expressed to a rather unfriendly manager as he granted me egress without water. Once yet again sensibilities prevail over self-preservation, and stupidity prevails over all. Welcome to the Holiday Season.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site

P.S.

These hideous mistakes of programming that have befallen me and mine will not stand. The one who’s fault it is will be found and killed, possibly by some sort of snake that is also on fire. That is all.