I would make terrible greeting cards. First off they’d be way too specific. I mean just look at that title. How many times a year do you have a friend buy a vehicle and then knock boots with stardom? Two, three times max. And often one only phones on such occasions.
Secondly I have very bizarre taste and not a lot of tact. The “Grieving and Other Life Events That Are Not Fun” section in my greeting card store would really struggle because I’d put a giant ostrich on the front of the card with a speech bubble saying “Wanna come live with me?”
Then the inside would read “Grandma took up the ostrich’s offer. She’s gone to a big emu farm in the sky. Sorry.”
Even though I buy my Christmas cards somehow they never end up being the standard holiday greetings most people send out. Here is a message I sent to a dear friend of mine who duels with poltergeists in his spare time.
Merry Christmas. I discovered a stack of Christmas cards that I either failed to write or failed to send.
I am a very responsible adult. I should probably be made president. I thought the front of this card said “nice” as in the Fonz style “nice”. But then I saw a stack of cards next to it that said “naughty” in bold letters and I was bummed.
So we’ll pretend you got a new car and I’m congratulating you- nice.
Or slept with Miley Cyrus- nice. Wait. I don’t know about that one.
Come to think of it getting a new car is kind of expensive. Let’s go with something simpler. We’re going to make believe you got a cookies and cream ice cream cone and I’m writing a card rather than texting or saying “Good call. Cookies and cream, always a winner.” like a normal person.
So back to the initial purpose of the card. Merry Christmas. Or Happy Belated Arbor Day. Either way enjoy the pretend ice cream.
The Great Unwashed
Having finished all of the half written cards I’m now terrified to open up the prewritten, sealed and addressed envelopes. The majority of the time upon rereading words that I’ve penned to loved ones and friends I question who the weird person was who wrote said piece of mail. Tragically it’s always me. We’ll see if I get up the courage to open the envelopes in which cases they’ll appear next week for a Travesty Tuesday post or whether I’ll just send them out and figure out whether the contents were wildly inappropriate based on whether or not the recipients speak to me again.
*Names have been changed to protect the identities of friends who receive nine months late Christmas cards from me that aren’t really Christmas cards.