Dear Santa Blogs:
So last year I asked for vampire books instead of a lot of dumb bunny books, and I got books about fuzzy ducks. But I’m not going to call you names for that, you Asian carp meringue pie. I have a different problem to ask about. My mom buys me all these books about duckies and bunnies and being a good little girl and writes “To My Bunky-Boo from Mumsy-Mops” in them. If I donate these to your Book Fair so I don’t get sick looking at them on my bookshelf, she’ll spot it right away, but you don’t like me ripping that page out. How am I supposed to get around that, huh?
I remember you from last year. At least fuzzy ducks fly. You’re working your way to vampires.
You have put your finger on a problem, though, bran éclair. I hate it when people feel they have to scribble out, cut out, or tear out their names in books, and I know I have also complained about Bunky-Boo inscriptions. Furthermore, prune pot pie, I come from a family where we believed it was worse even than tossing a brick through the feed store window to sell, give away, throw away, or burn with kerosene any present given to you by a member of your immediate family. It wasn’t the gift, but the thought that counted: you couldn’t let the giver know what you really thought of that book on snail-polishing. The only way to be free was to remove that page with the Bunky-Boo line, so you could pretend that must be somebody else’s copy they saw in the secondhand shop.
Then a resale shop in my home town had a stroke of genius. They contracted with another thrift store twenty-five miles off to swap merchandise. You just told them you didn’t want Snail-Polishing for Goshdarn Fools sold anywhere Aunt Booney might see it, and they would send it to the other thrift store in exchange for some copy of The Beginner’s Field Guide to Snuggies that someone over there got for Christmas.
So just go online and find another book fair somewhere your mom won’t ever go, and mail the book there. You’ll be free of a book that might accidentally teach you some manners and I won’t have to deal with you at all, at all. It’s a gift for each of us.
This is my last gift of prose to you, faithful blog readers, for 2010. I am running off to the wlld west to celebrate holidays in the land where we sometimes stay up ‘til 9 on New Year’s Eve and drink insane quantities of grape pop (we don’t call it soda where I come from, pardner.) So keep warm, don’t dump too many books on the Newberry while I’m away, and watch for the next thrilling installment in the history of banana boxes next year. L’chaim!