Many apologies for the tardiness of this letter. Several drafts were undertaken, all of which were heavily censored with a black Magic Marker in the style of classified CIA JFK assassination documents, so much so that they appeared as nothing more than a greeting, several dozen horizontal black bars, and finally a farewell. Apparently my definition of an appropriate holiday epistle varies slightly from that of my better half’s. If you care to see the earlier drafts, please mail a written request, care of Norman Leonard, and I will gladly forward you said documents. In the spirit of keeping the peace, here is the sanitized edition:
Mark another great year for the Leonard Dynasty! On February 7th, we welcomed Samuel Cash Leonard into the bosom of our family. He immediately lived up to the controversial figures that are his namesakes (Samuel Clemens and Johnny Cash) when three neonatal nurses passed out at the sight of his manliness. On second thought, we should have named him after George Thorogood because Sam is Bad to the Boner (no, not a typo). We might also have named him after Barrack Obama as Sam has proven himself to be big on change. Not even a year old and he has dedicated himself to changing the tide of modern style by doing away with the plague that is skinny jeans. All of you silly little Emo folk should be afraid – very afraid. Sam’s comin’ for ya.
And now on to Charlee who has had a somewhat tumultuous year; however, she’ll be the first to tell you that the most difficult part was admitting she had a problem. December makes it sixth months clean and sober for this tyke. She has helped herself to neither a binky nor a ba-ba, and she’s made peace with the 12-Step philosophy – one day at a time, brothers and sisters, one day at a time.
For all the haters out there, I’d like to brag on my wife for a moment. Less than a year after Sam nearly tore Becky in two, she is back down to her pre-baby weight, and I couldn’t be more proud. Her hips are slim, her boobs are ridin’ high, and her butt fits nicely into all of her pre-pregnancy jeans. Because of this swift, enigmatic return to her figure, she has been made the subject of a study on gerontology and anti-gravity, a joint effort between NASA and AARP. Makes a husband proud.
Our dog Girdie continues to struggle with matters of the heart. After a long and torrid affair with a mutt named Armani that vaguely resembles a rat, she sank into a desperate bout of depression, self medicating with dirty diapers and kitty roca (Note: to the neighbor who owns the obese tabby cat that looks like Joan Rivers, please do not allow your felonious feline to drop trou directly outside our door). Just recently, however, Girdie picked up on a scent at the park, which she believes belongs to her one true love. At her request, I am including a description of the scent, so if any of you have ever smelled the south end of a dog that evokes the fragrance of “a port-a-potty on a hot day in Juarez with a subtle hint of pickled herring and deep-fried deviled eggs,” please let him know that his one true love is keeping a crate warm for him in Lake Forest, California.
As for me, things have been status quo. If I were to report anything, it would have to be my vasectomy, only because of its undeniable effect on our economy. You see, the day after my vasectomy the NASDAQ posted its biggest loss of the year. Who knew my vas deferens played such an important role in the United States finances? Oh, well. I’m sure our national wealth will recover just as quickly as did my testicles.
The Leonard Dynasty
P.S. A quick update on the exploits of the Huckabees — my Aunt Norma and Uncle Chuck: the third nipple was not a nipple but a skin carbuncle. Rotten luck.
P.P.S. For those who have been asking about the professional exploits of my Aunt Norma: her internet porn empire continues to flourish. Brian Schnurle, I know you’ve asked, and since I’ve already dished out the money for the stamp, I’ll just answer your questions here: www.auntnormanailsthenorthwest.com.