Dear England,
It's been quite a long while, hasn't it? Forgive me for not writing a letter earlier; I've been vacationing in some very humid location called The Hamptons. Forgive me—did I spell that correctly? Or was it The Bronks? No, no, dear me, I believe I've rendered myself confused again.
Pressing on: it is a very good day to write this letter to you, as I am confident you are in need of one, what with your recent misadventures with that French man and the cold weather of Antarctica. I do believe it is the most frigid place on this planet! The neighborhood strays tell me the two of you were on some exploration, is that right? Well, I've no idea why you'd investigate ice; the only thing it's good for is…didn't Ben Franklin do some sort of experiment with painted ice?
Well, then the only thing ice is good for is painting.
Anyway, it's rather late and I expect you're anxious for the next episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic (is that what it's called?), so I'll leave you to it. You like that phrase? An American Shorthair stopped by, taught me that "slang", as he called it. I've learned several phrases over the few months you've been away.
But, dear me, why ever would you call a woman a "bird"? Your neighbor must despise his fiancée very much; I hear him call her that all the time. And who in Heaven's name is Swag? I overheard the term at the local pub, but I don't understand why the huma—I mean, people there would speak of him so much, and in all sort of colorful, irrelevant sentences, such as:
"Ay, check out that Swag!"
Or:
"Look at that guy's Swag; what a hipster. Yolo forever!"
Is Yolo Swag's brother? They certainly sound related!
Your ca—I mean, your Avon Lady,
Bartholemew Herbert Hadshock the Fifth
PS: Why is your television unit so cruel? It shouted at me the other day, said: "You can't handle the truth!" All I was wondering was why the blender wouldn't stop talking after I fed it an egg, and that devilish man yelled at me! You might have a word or two with him!