For the second time now, I have read a letter you sent me and have been both disappointed and frightened that my son’s whereabouts have not yet been discovered. Being left alone to tend to my cheeses has been rewarding, yes. However, I can not shake that feeling that hits a man when his son may or may not be dead, and his wife has taken on a manservant at a summer camp in order to search for him. It is a feeling of remorseful, angering confusion.
There is an old cheese monger saying that goes “if it has not aged in the natural Combalou caves of Roquefort-sur-Soulzon, it is not Roquefort.” It’s a saying because the name Roquefort has a protected designation of origin; therefore, no cheese may be called Roquefort unless…well…you know the saying.
I bring this up because I always liked to think of Grover, my son, as having a Protected Designation of Origin. His PDO was his house — my home. I want Grover returned to my home as soon as possible. Right now, I am feeling the same anxiety I would have if I were to open a shipment sent to my cheese shop that was labeled Roquefort, and notice that it came from WITHIN THE UNITED STATES!
But enough of cheese-related figurative speech. The stool sample you mentioned containing Ring Dings is a good sign. I am going use that to cling to hope with reckless abandon. My son is still alive, still in good health, and I’ll be back to making him macaroni and cheese at knife-point again in no time!
The information you gave me about my wife is the part of your letter that comes as no surprise. Estella once threatened a security guard to drive her two thousand miles to attend a Poison Concert. Once the Stockholm Syndrome faded, their new marriage ended as quickly and strangely as it began. I still stand by my statement that I am the most caring of her 3 previous husbands.
I am pleased that she will be paid (I assume) for doing your job, and doing it better than you all have been; yet, at the same time, I am annoyed that she has taken you on as a “manservant.” This is often the way she flirts. When I first read that, my fists clenched so tightly that even the most aged cheddar would have crumbled under their power.
Once my VERY ALIVE son has been found, I will have to challenge you to a Tri-Battle for the love of Estella, my beautiful and deadly wife. The Tri-Battle will be in the areas of: Boxing (to prove our manliness), Cheese Connoisseurship (my specialty), and an area of your choosing…I don’t know…using a positive attitude to support the dreams of America’s youth or some bullshit.
Excuse the swearing. I am just a bit emotional now between my wife slapping you on the rear and my son’s HAPPY AND VERY PLANNED, NOT AT ALL DANGEROUS WOODLY EXCURSION.
Please let me know when you found my son. Also, keep me updated on our Tri-Battle. I will begin making a spreadsheet and a binder about it, so I would like to know what area you have in mind for the third round. Having a binder labeled TRI-BATTLE with only two Divider Tabs looks pretty absurd.