Dear Sir or Madam,

Why weren’t you at my party? Simply everyone in the world was invited. Make no mistake; I am not, nor am I ever, exaggerating. If there’s one thing I take very seriously it’s where-and-whens. I am tired of asking somebody where they are and falling into a tirade about how the hands of fate have battered them. I’m only trying to maintain a tight psychological grip here — but I digress. I sent out six-point-seven billion invitations. Did you not get yours?

I semi-genuinely apologize for the quality of the invitations themselves, if that was what offended you. You see, at the printing company I use, you must provide your own raw materials if your order exceeds one Greek myriad. Considering my order numbered about 665 Indian crores of cardstock, I had to purchase a small forest and decimate it, which was a chore in itself, although naturally I performed no physical labour. I had to bribe the owners of the land with invitations to what I called “an exclusive party,” And if you look at it in the cosmic sense or consider the innumerable species of animal and plant I disenfranchised, it is. I think they were in attendance. I even think they brought quiche. You could have had some.

The invitations were delivered weeks ago by a fleet of postmen, several of whom were trained to read their parcel upon delivery to those who were illiterate and/or rude enough to not understand English. Biplanes sprinkled countries and regions locked by war and water, and those who might distrust an invitation from a white man that did not fall from the heavens. Racism is so boring. It’s so much easier to recognize the only two true races: the miserable and the gullible. You don’t sell yourself short with eye judgments and it’s far easier to understand the breeding.

I really wish you could have come probably. I rented out the entire country of Luxembourg. They were so pleased that someone had heard of them. I understand France and Germany are currently in talks over which of them will absorb the nation’s gutted-out husk now that the festivities have ended. Parts of the event were broadcasted live via satellite to other parts of the event. About two hundred and four bands played. None of them were asked to play but they did anyhow. Nobody complained — except for Garfield McCullough from Edmonton, Alberta. The other Canadians have agreed to start ignoring him. Oh, also, Kenji Ishinabe of Yokohama brought Scattegories and I think someone else brought a cake, which was fairly popular.

There was a strict No Alcohol policy, because I knew that everyone would sneak it in anyway along with probably harder stuff and I wouldn’t have to pay for it. To be sure, a fun time was had by all who could remember it. Your absence has annoyed me, though, and I think I will not be hosting anymore Everyone-On-Earth-Is-Invited parties. They aren’t fair to the courageous astronauts in space, and parties are exponentially more fun when you can exclude people. So, do please come to my next frolic, won’t you? Unless, of course, I decide not to invite you, in which case stay the hell away and assume we are all talking about you.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site

P.S.

Soon!

Everyone-On-Earth-Whose-Name-Begins-With-G-Is-Invited!!!

So all you Garys, Günters, and Gungas
grab your green goggles and
get ready to go get gone.

Where: Possibly a town with a Welch or Native American
name that has at least five G’s in it.

When: August. (Only G on the calendar, I’m afraid.)

No, Garfield McCullough from Canada, you’re not invited.
The postman shouldn’t even be bringing you this letter.