By Rhiannon Giles of rhiyaya.com
Dear Toppy,
I have been wondering how to best contact you, knowing as I do that sending correspondence in the mail would cause confusion and delay because your mail train is currently in rehab for his habit of huffing and puffing crack. Since you cut the phone lines to prevent the diesel engines from using your 56kbps modem to visit shuntingthecoalchute.com, I am left with only a faint hope that this email missive will catch your attention. I hope you have upgraded to a smartphone by now.
You see, my dear brother, I have spent the last year in court-ordered therapy after I took George to volunteer at our local groomers, dying the grey hair of disadvantaged elderly dogs. That silly monkey inked, “Help! Hostage!” on Miss Braversham’s Schnoodle and she called the police. I’m so tired of his shit.
It turns out our parents’ belief that only a tall hat would get us close to heaven may not be grounded in actual science, as they have always led us to believe. I was as surprised as you must be. Months of exposure therapy has let me shed my yellow shackle and experience the glorious freedom of walking through doorways without ducking. Sex has become much cheaper since I no longer have to find someone willing to role play jungle explorer and safari tourist.
George and I have done much work on our relationship as well, and I have come to better understand my role as both his father figure and captor. I wish I’d never taken that fucking ape from the jungle.
You and I both seek control in a God-like way, trying to achieve all that our hats represent. It will be our downfall.
Much like my ADHD ball and chain, you cannot dictate the actions of those abominations of sentient metal. Their urge to please you with their large loads and pumping pistons is based on intimidation and fear, and their destructive behaviors represent something much more sinister.
I am writing to warn you, as I want to save you from the fate that is sure to befall me. It is likely that by the time you have a cell phone signal and can read this, I will be dead, drowned in the very hat that weighed me down for so long.
Yesterday I awoke to the screams of an angry balloon vendor as George crawled through our window with his opposable thumbs wrapped around balloons — so many balloons. Before I could understand what was happening, he began to tie them around my neck. During my morning bath I opened my eyes to find him standing on the edge of the tub holding a hairdryer in one hand and a toaster in the other. He’s not that fucking curious, Toppy.
Mark my words, your engines will someday question why you need an entire train system for an island the size of Nantucket, and they won’t feel so very useful anymore. Retire before you find yourself tied to a narrow-gauge rail with your top hat as a blindfold or the victim of an unfortunate “accident” at the Sodor Steamworks.
It’s not too late for you, dear brother. Save yourself.
Warmest regards,
Ted
*****
About the Author
Rhiannon Giles is an overwhelmed mother who only occasionally considers giving her children to the circus. She has a sarcasm problem and writes regularly at rhiyaya.com. To keep up with new posts and see some of her favorites, join her on Facebook and Twitter.