From: Aaron Simon

To: _EVERYONE

Sent: Wednesday December 14, 2011 1:35PM

Subject: Holiday letter.

Hello.

I thought it might boost camaraderie and the whole morale thing if I were to send a holiday letter out to the office.

You see, it would appear that a large number of you do not like me. I cannot understand why, as we’ve had such a great year, you and I. Like the time I offered to start up a daycare service, but all of you spat in my face. Or when I suggested obliterating a window across the street with a cannon to free pigeons—and was, once again, spat upon. Or maybe the time I offered to sell one of you a very nice handbag purchased from a special source in South America. And was spat upon.

No matter. It’s all in the past, as they say. I hold no grudges, as grudges tend to turn into wishes for obliteration, and there are times—though I have never had anything like that—when those wishes come to fruition. Thus, there is nothing to worry about. Nor will there be.

How to summarize this year? It’s been an interesting one, you can count on that. It started when I was the subject of police brutality in Chicago. They were under the impression that I was “stalking” someone, when I was really ensuring that the girl in question made it to her apartment safely. I’ve just finished with my physical therapy, so there’s that.

After that, in February, there was the unfortunate incident on the Nashville MTA on the day of the Ice Hell. You know what I mean: That day when the entire city lost its collective mind and there was naught but chaos on the streets. It took the bus eight hours to make it down West End Avenue. No matter how many times I apologized to my fellow bus riders for trampling the elderly man who works for the state, they would not cease calling for my public stoning.

No matter. They will have their comeuppance. And, you know, it’s not like the old man didn’t recover. He may still be unable to walk, but I’ve heard that he can ingest food now. So there’s that.

Since then, I received the news that my liver is half-way deteriorated. This was not the best possible outcome of my forced physical (thanks, Obama), but I suppose it was an important thing to learn. The doctor gave me a prescription of pills that, he said, were supposed to contribute to the regrowth of my liver. Of course, that did not happen. Instead, I found that whenever I walked outside into direct sunlight, my skin would erupt into hundreds of tiny bumps.

I then went to a dermatologist to have it checked out. He took one look at me and said, “Your liver is shot.” I asked about the bumps on my skin, and he responded with a simple shrug. “It might be your body shutting down,” he said.

I’m sure that this is proof that there is no God in the Christian sense. One who loves His creations and does whatever it takes to be a benevolent deity. It does not, however, rule out the existence of the Old Testament God, my people’s God, who could be diagnosed with anger problems. It is entirely possible that Adonai has seen the way I’ve acted (read: not going to shul every week) and has decided that the only course of action possible is to smite me in a horrible way.

So, that in mind, I’ve decided to sod the medical advice of my doctor—whose pills have resulted in what seem to be some horrid condition not entirely different from what I would imagine the plague would have been like—and dive into whiskey at any available opportunity.

Thus, I would like to announce the creation of a philanthropic organization: The Aaron Simon Society For Those Who Want To Die In An Alcoholic Haze. The mission of the charity will be to provide the finest liquor to those with terminal diseases who, like me, have just given up. Ideally, the charity would provide only scotch, but I recognize that not everyone has my refined palate. So, the non-profit’s cabinets will stock vodka, gin, tequila, and any other available liquor including wine.

If you are interested in donating, please contact me and I will forward you information. (NOTE: This is not a tax-deductible organization. The bastards in Washington have the antiquated belief that a man does not have the right to commit suicide by drinking, and have thus contacted me and said that my charity will not have any support from Washington. Let’s see any of them get whiskey from me when they have cancer of the bowels.)

Since I received that news, I’ve been attempting to wheel my life more towards a Dudelike existence. I should say that all of you make it obscenely hard to abide. With your incessant demands to “do work” and “stop harassing your coworkers with vague threats,” one would think that this is not meant to be a friendly work environment.

Well, other than that, it’s been a slow year. Coming into this fluorescent-lit hell every day and seeing my soul slowly deteriorate to nothing more than a puddle at the bottom of the shell that once housed a man who wanted nothing more than to make millions off of novel writing, and then squander all those millions on prostitutes, whiskey, and drugs, eventually fading out to a spark of what once was and then dying, alone and alienated, in the gutter. A modern-day Poe.

Have yourself a good holiday, whatever it is.

Sincerely,

Aaron Simon

P.S. Ted Hayward: You are only receiving this e-mail because it would take too much time to take you off of the list. “EVERYONE” includes you, and you should feel glad that I am too lazy to select everyone but you. If I were to write a letter specifically to you, it would consist of nothing more than photographs of the dead.