13 December, 2011


in the parking lot of a big box reno store, i am telling mr. monkey all about a co-worker who was stressed out because her daughter's letter to santa was filled with strange and difficult-to-find items:

moi: so she's freaking out about not being able to buy everything on her daughter's letter! can you imagine? who knew that a letter to santa was something that you had to follow to religiously? i always figured it was just a guideline. you know: they ask for a macbook, you get them a calculator; they ask for a pony, you get them a hamster sort of thing.

mr. monkey (slightly confused look on his face): ...

moi: isn't that odd? that she's getting everything on this letter to santa?

mr. monkey: what?

moi: letter to santa.

mr. monkey (increasing look of incomprehension): what?!

moi: her daughter's letter to santa!

mr. monkey (frankly horrified): WHAT? a letter of placenta?!?

moi: yes. a letter to placenta: "dear placenta, this year under the uterus i'd like a vulva." christ.


Zhoen said...

You reminded me of Vulva, in Spaced.


Lucy said...

I'd suggest you get mr monkey's hearing checked except then life wouldn't be so entertaining.

the polish chick said...

zhoen, it looks like your taste in books and tv is alarmingly like mine (and mine is all care of crusty juggler, a reference i'm sure you get).

lucy, i don't think it's his hearing as much as his listening.