This Christmas seasons, millions of adorable couples will express their love through thoughtful, romantic gifts. Unfortunately, though, some will fail miserably. As an example, The Gabbler presents to you the following email, forwarded to us by a girl who only identifies herself as Christina. “Please,” she begged us, “post this on your website. Tom’s not answering any of my calls or texts, so hopefully he’ll happen upon this email on your website and get the message. He’ll know it’s for him.” The email is a harrowing tale of a romantic and festive gesture going horribly wrong.
I really liked you. I even liked how much you love Christmas. Your intense, genuine love of whimsy and life’s magical moments is enough to make any girl swoon. But this, this is a little too much.
First of all, I’d like to know if you even considered how my landlord would react to finding out that there was a partridge in a pear tree in a pet-free building. Not to mention the turtledoves, “French” hens, colly birds and don’t even get me started on the swans. Because, I can tell you, it was not too pretty and I’m now looking at a very homeless Christmas if those people on Craigslist don’t get back to me about the opening on their couch in what can only be described as a tenement building taken over by frat boys. So thank you for that.
Also, I know that in a popular Christmas carol all is beautiful and joyful and the angels are singing, but did you know that in real life partridges are fucking mean? Like, really mean. Luckily for me, my doctor said that the eye pecking I received upon arriving at my apartment last night won’t cause any permanent blindness. And, you would love this, I even got a red and green eye patch to celebrate the season. Yay.
And imagine my surprise, in coming back from my doctor’s appointment to find two turtledoves standing over the bloodied corpse of the partridge. Guess things got a little too real while I was gone, huh?
This is when I started calling you. But you must have been too busy at some organic farm up-state buying some more hens. (But just so you know, putting little berets on them does not make them French. It’s actually a specific breed. Look it up.)
You DID somehow manage to look up what a colly bird is, though, since I came home from work the other day to four of them in living room. FOUR. That’s a lot of bird feces. Luckily, I had finally managed to get the turtle doves and the hens to a shelter, so they were it for the night.
But, then more showed up, faster than I could get rid of them. So here I am, surrounded by six geese, who when they aren’t a-laying, are a-fighting with the seven swans, who I assume you mean to leave a-swimming in my bathtub. And of course there are the eight maids-a-milking who never go home and who cower in fear whenever I offer them water. Are they slaves, Tom? Did you get me TRAFFICKED HUMAN BEINGS for Christmas?
Speaking of trafficked human beings, I think the ladies dancing and lords-a-leaping you sent, after I changed the locks, might be some combination of prostitutes and strippers. Because I’ve seen a few too many naked human beings in the past few days and been propositioned just one too many times. And I may not be religious, but I can tell you for sure that the baby Jesus would NOT approve of what those ladies have done with my Christmas tree ornaments.
Really, though, the 11 pipers piping and 12 drummers drumming were the last straw. It’s four in the morning, Tom, and they’re still drumming. STILL. Which is why I find myself here, writing you this email, since your phone seems to be broken. I assume your computer is at least working, because I can’t imagine how a man would get his hands on 50 trafficked human beings without a phone or a computer.
I think you know where this email is headed, Tom. It’s over. This level of enthusiasm is just too much. I know I told you how much it upset me that my ex never made me feel special, that I loved grand romantic gestures, but I just never expected this. And, to be brutally honest, this entire 12 days of Christmas scheme seems to lack foresight.
And, while we’re at it, can I just remind you that Christmas isn’t even 12 days away yet? I’m not sure if you just couldn’t count or maybe you had five extra day of surprises planned for me (and, to be honest, that very thought terrifies me). I know that we had an early “couples Christmas” planned with some friends, but, still, if you’re going to recreate a Christmas carol, shouldn’t you at least get the math right? In fact, if we’re going to get really technical, I googled it and the 12 days of Christmas actually start ON Christmas, so you’re about three weeks too early.
Please, just mail me my things, so I can move on. And don’t expect the five gold rings back, either. They’re the only valuable, worthwhile gift from this whole song and there’s a Cash for Gold place near the tenement/frat house apartment I hope to move into. I need to get together first and last month’s rent somehow.
I hope you that this email doesn’t ruin the merry Christmas that I know you looked forward to so much. No, actually, I’m not that big of a person, Tom. I hope you get fucking coal.