Getting Rid of Fairies

Terrance's bathroom had a serious fairy infestation. He couldn't turn on the lights without seeing them flock to the mirror to primp and preen and admire their wings. They would take the caps off of his toothpaste to use as cups. They would destroy his cotton swabs to make dapper walking canes, even though they rarely walked. They would hack his wash clothes and hand towels to ribbons to make dresses and they would use his lotions to, well, to moisturize their skin, which wasn't weird so much as annoying, because that lotion was his, darn it. He considered hiring the Ghostbusters to deal with his infestation, but the cost of supernatural pest removal, even pint sized sprites like these pixies was cost prohibitive on his retail cashier salary. Thinking himself a clever man, he fashioned a “Protected by Ghostbusters” sign and ensured their commercials ran continually throughout the day to discourage the tiny menaces. His plan failed miserably, however, because it hinged upon one tiny logical flaw, one reasonable assumption that as it turned out was completely false. He assumed if he put up the warning sign and played the commercials, they would be fearful and leave, but he assumed wrong. What he should have assumed when dealing with fairies is that they do not care in the least about anything he does.

- Originally mailed to A. Perkins in Metarie, Louisiana

Hidden Style

You would never know it to look at the guy, but Hansel Feinstein was a sharp dressed man. He kept his trouser creases so sharp they could cut. He coordinated his various ensembles like a special forces surgical strike. He had no fewer than fifty sets of cufflinks for every occasion and he kept a man on retainer just to keep his closet of shoes, from loafers to wing tips and every other piece of footwear imaginable, polished and ready to go at a moment's notice. He had closet after walk in closet dedicated to shirts alone with every possible attractive combination of cut, cloth, and color. His suit guy was so talented, Italian tailors imported from him. Hansel was a clothing god.

But it never did any good. His silk double breasted charcoal pinstripe, a textile work of art, never swayed a single negotiation, though its very appearance could make the hardest CEO yield to anything. His two-tone zoot suit with the white gold and pearl buttons could make the most chaste women chase him, but they never had a chance to, for they never saw it. Hansel's drive for the perfect outfit was so acute that though he wore his exquisite clothes constantly, he could never reveal them for fear that a touch of dust here or the wrong lighting there might ruin the effect and present him in an unrivaled but still inferior light. And so the world's best dresser walked the earth in a protective plastic suit, no one ever the wiser at the immaculate clothing hidden beneath that sixteenth of an inch of yellow vinyl.

- Originally mailed to J. Womack in Brooklyn, New York