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Dear Folks
by Astrid Boyle

Dear Folks,

Hi y'all! PLEASE excuse the group letter but I've been thinking a lot about all of you lately, what with the big holiday coming up, and I just want to send out a big collective THANKS. Thanks for all of the helpful things you've told me over the years, unforgettable little tidbits that keep popping into my head at the most random moments: when I'm watching TV, shaving my legs, doing the dishes, or attempting to have sex with my husband. So folks, bear with me as I give each of you a moment in the spotlight of gratitude -- and of course, if you can't stand reading about someone beside yourself, please feel free to skim!

Let's start with you, mother-in-law! Jeez, that sounds so FORMAL -- I wish I could call you by your name, Shirley, but I think we avoided any unnecessary closeness since the first time your son brought me home. I said, "Hi there" and you said, "Hello, I hope my son doesn't marry some bitch who won't let him give me any money!" In the years since, you've managed to fill me in on every one of your illnesses, real and imagined! I LOVE knowing about your TMJ, bone spurs, neck tumors, the holes in your retinas, exploratory knee surgery, and breakthrough vaginal bleeding - I can't believe you bled through three beach towels and a brown paper grocery bag on the way to the hospital. That is some bleeding. I've also enjoyed hearing how much your other son -- my brother-in-law -- LOVES blow jobs. Funny, I'd heard that a lot of men like blow jobs, but it took hearing it from you for it to really sink into this thick skull of mine!

Hi Dad!! I'm glad we're talking to each other again after what was it -- six, seven years? It's nice for my son to know his grandpa, especially since I told you never to lay a hand on him. I mean, hey -- let's save SOME things just for ourselves, eh? Like the way you used to instruct me on how to hand-scrub the "Hershey squirts" out of the crotch of your leopard print bikini underwear. Remember that time you were wearing them at the breakfast table and you were chewing me out for, uh, I don't remember exactly -- was it smiling? Or whistling? Something involving being happy -- ANYWAY, there you were, sitting in your chair with a bowl of All-Bran in front of you, legs akimbo, yelling at me, and -- sorry! -- all I got out of it was the head of your penis sticking out of the fly of those panties! It was only a peripheral view of the itty-bitty tippity-tip, but Mom had already told me that you had "a big one" so don't worry, I'm not harboring any false impressions. Your painfully generous endowment is the stuff of family lore! I don't know -- maybe it's an issue because Mom's pubic hair is -- how did you put it? -- starched with urine?

MOVING ON! Oh, father-in-law -- remember back in our early days, when I just started dating your son and I thought I could be your fag hag? I have to admit, it was my dream come true: having a gay father-in-law. No weird sex vibes when you admired my freshly waxed eyebrows. And that time at our first Thanksgiving together, when you held a turkey drumstick up in the air and wished it were a "juicy black cock" instead? What a riot. I think the one to beat, though, is that time you and your son and I were out to dinner and you said, after commenting on the tight-looking ass of our Persian busboy, "I can't think of a single time Shirley and I had sex that we didn't simultaneously orgasm!" Gosh, I was so excited for you two! There's nothing that makes my vagina dry up faster than picturing my husband's parents coming together! And I hope you don't ever think she might have been faking it, even once Mickey! So what if you're gay now, that doesn't mean your hetero life had to be a sham. Relax! You are like, SO GAY. You're always up for pitching in your two cents worth of gay, like "Your front doormat and your back doormat don't match" or "Wrap your leftover cheese tightly in Saran -- don't use Ziploc bags, for Pete's sake" or "Circumcise your son -- uncut meat is prone to infection!" Wow! You have so much energy -- give ME some!

And Mom, I bet you're so honored that I saved you, the be-e-e-e-est, for la-a-a-ast. No, I was being Whitney Houston. No, not Paris Hilton. WHITNEY HOUSTON. You don't know who that is? She's like this totally awesome junkie! Look, never mind, I just have a simple mother-daughter advice question for you: why did you sit on the toilet every day looking at your vagina with a mirror like it was some shifty creature you had to keep your eye on? I was just wondering when I should start doing that. After all, my kid is almost THREE. I'll never forget the time I wandered into the bathroom while you were picking at your "down there" with tweezers. I was like, "Mom, gross! Don't use tweezers on your gumball" -- that was our nickname for the inside of your vagina, remember? -- and you were like, "Right-a-rooni, I'll use a bobby pin next time.'" Even though I'm all grown up and have a kid of my own and live a gazillion miles away from you, I still think about those times.

Well, I guess that's it for now. Merry Christmas Everybody!



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