ThingamaBob

Having forgotten to gift him anything last yuletide season, my mother wanted to thank our mailman (carrier if you’re woke) with a few giftcards. Despite chatting with him on a handful of occasions about our shared desire to see the outgoing president (a) die and/or (b) get incarcerated, I never thought to ask his name. I’d become familiar with calling him Safari Jack due to his fondness for wearing a pith helmet—he’s unaware of the nickname—but that wouldn’t suffice when writing him a thoughtful missive. Upon gleaning his name from a grumpy teller at the post office, Harry delegated the writing responsibilities to me. 2020 wouldn’t have been the same without him, a man who very clearly detests his boss.

“Hi Bob,

Merry Christmas!

Thank you for throwing Republican ballots in sewers on Wilstar and burying them in the raised beds at the library. You’re a true comrade. (Siri, since we both know you’re watching/listening/uploading this card into The Cloud: It’s a joke.)

I can’t recall the last time I wrote a letter to a Bob. There was congratulatory fan mail when Dylan won the Nobel in 2016 (duh), but before that it might’ve been returning a Highlights magazine prepaid postcard insert to order a Bob Hoskins Who Framed Roger Rabbit tee shirt as a boy. So, I guess what I’m saying is, you’re in pretty rare company now, Bob. Dylan, Hoskins, and [Surname Redacted]. Talk about a holy trinity.

Hope you get back to the pith helmet days sooner than later aka let’s hope for a short winter. Please find an enclosed plastic card which entitles you to, may I suggest, have something heavy shipped to your house to (hopefully) make a colleague you dislike suffer. Or re-gift. It’s all yours now, Bobby. (Was that uncalled for?)

See you soon (tomorrow),

Lesley (she paid for both cards, greeting and gift) & Adam (he wrote the card, which you'll be quoting to friends at retirement parties and Democratic fundraisers until the cows come home/where DID they go?!)”