The Holiday Form Letter, unabridged

Dear all (Whoever the hell you are; you keep sending me cards and I swear I've never met you before in my life):

Well, 2004 is drawing to a close and we thought we'd fill you in on our latest news (set your bullshit detector on Level 11). Susan, our eldest, is just finishing up her college applications as she dives into winter finals (she's hooked on Vicodin, Vivarin, Ritalin and is tweaking in some 7-Eleven as we speak). Her grade point average is 3.8 (thanks to her friend Tina, who has a 4.0 GPA, is curious about bisexuality, and lets her cheat in exchange for fellatio), and she's applied to all the Ivy League schools on the east coast -- keep your fingers crossed! (Otherwise we'll have to move to Utah, become Mormons and marry her off to some fifteen-year old Aryan inbred.)

Tommy, our baby boy, is currently a budding soccer star (well, he loves bud, anyway). His coach says he'll take the team all the way to state finals this year (if he doesn't: a.) knock up some eighth grader, b.) get caught dealing after practice, or c.) die accidentally from auto-erotic asphyxiation). We're very proud (we're taking him to therapy).

Bob's work in sales is going very well, and it takes him all over the country and overseas (which is why he gave me that rare strain of gonorrhea only found in Thailand). He's excited to be home for the holidays (so he can go back to screwing the neighbor's wife). I'm still working part time at the library and enjoying my work with the school's PTA group (because being sexually harassed by my children's principal is a dream come true). Oh, and I've started a local chapter of Oprah's Book Club (No one else will join because they hate me)! What fun (Keep me away from all sharp objects).

Best Wishes to You and Yours during this holiday season (May you choke on the cinnamon stick in your mulled cider and die a slow, painful, apple-cinnamonny-scented death),

The Joneses