The Twelve Days of Christmas
My most beloved:
On the first day of Christmas, I hereby give to thee: a partridge in a pear tree.
My dear true love,
Good Lord! Is this truly for me, this partridge in a pear tree? I truly admire the thoughtful gift – how creative of you! I’ve never gotten such a present. A bird and a tree that supplies me with fresh pears for eternity? Splendid! Um, there’s one small issue, however…you know I live in a one-bedroom apartment and the neighbors are nosy, so it’s not really the ideal environment to raise a bird in. But that is a trivial concern. And besides, it’s the thought that counts, and I’ve got no doubt at all that your love for me is strong and true. Merry Christmas!
My cherished:
On the second day of Christmas, I hereby give to thee: two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
My dear true love,
Now you have bequeathed me two turtle doves? Goodness gracious me! And I see you’ve taken to offering a litany of the previous gifts you’ve given me in your letters. As it turns out, a partridge, two turtle doves, and a grandiose pear tree take up quite a significant amount of space in my apartment. The angelic chorus of three birds squawking provides a constant raucous soundtrack that I’m not so sure I enjoy…but once again, you have proved to me the depths of your love. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
My sweetheart, for whom a roaring bonfire of love rages:
On the third day of Christmas, I hereby give to thee: three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
My dear true love,
Oh my…I thank you for professing your affections so profoundly, but was it truly necessary to send three French hens my way? My bird collection has now doubled in size, just like my poop cleaning bill! Who knew that six birds could produce such massive mountains of dookie? Not to mention that the partridge has started to eat all of my pears on my pear tree, the turtle doves are abnormally sluggish (could they actually be related to turtles?), and the French hens are cranking out eggs non-stop! And guess what? I had the good fortune of finding out today that turtle doves and partridges absolutely despise each other. It seems that they are too snobby to be kept in the same cage. Residents from all over the complex are hammering their fists on my door, demanding that I “Keep the racket down!” and I find it hard to explain how this is the fault of my absent true love. Please, I beg of you dear, no more Christmas gifts. You have made your love quite clear.
My darling:
On the fourth day of Christmas, I hereby give to thee: four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
My dear true love,
I was a fool; I was a dunce. I was naïve. When you called today to inform me that “four calling birds” were coming my way, I senselessly concluded that you had purchased decorative figures or something. How I regret believing that this present could be anything other than literal. I apologize, but the calling of these lovely birds you’ve sent is ghastly. Four birds? Really? As soon as one of them shuts up and I have sweet, sweet peace for once, another opens its trap and starts screeching too. Ten birds in my one-bedroom apartment. I’m surrounded by icky Oreo-cookie-colored glop, piles of eggs (damn those French hens, I’m worried they might start hatching into chicks), and ten unbelievably noisy birds. I think my neighbors are planning ways to “dispose” of me. Thanks so much.
My stunning love:
On the fifth day of Christmas, I hereby give to thee: five golden rings…and four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
My dear true love,
What a pleasant surprise! Your gift of five golden rings bathes me in a welcome relief from the destructive birds you’ve been sending me. However, I’m not sure how I’ll wear these…one on each finger, or all rings stacked up on one finger? They’re a little bulky to carry around, but nonetheless, I appreciate the sentiment. I apologize for holding you in disdain these past few days because of our little avian misunderstanding. Merry Christmas!
My treasured:
On the sixth day of Christmas, I hereby give to thee: six geese a-laying…and five golden rings! Plus four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
My dear true love,
Aaaand…we’re back to the birds again. Must this relief be so short? What is going on with the mixed signals I’m getting from you? I thought I clarified what defines a good gift and what does not. What’s more, it is apparently not the season of giving. Rather, it is the season of goslings, and six geese a-laying in my one-bedroom apartment is driving me nuts. Every few seconds, pop! – and another egg falls out of their rear ends as if they were dropping from the sky. I don’t know what you want to do with these endless birds, but my apartment floor is now a poop receptacle in the shade of cookies-and-cream. My furious neighbors are promising me that the blasted birds will end up on the dinner menu, and quite frankly, I’m not all that inclined to resist.
My precious:
On the seventh day of Christmas, I hereby give to thee: seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying…and five golden rings! Plus four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
My dear true love,
You have clearly interpreted statements such as “poop receptacle” and “the blasted birds will end up on the dinner menu” as positive feedback and a sign of encouragement. To dispel any confusion: I HATE THIS AND PLEASE STOP OR I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND. I think twenty-three birds is quite enough for a one-bedroom apartment. This so-called “gift” has proven to me that Christmas-wise, you were a terrible choice for a true love. With everything else that’s going on in this apartment, I’ve unsurprisingly discovered that swans hate geese to a terrifying extent. Additionally, there is a truly distressing amount of poop climbing sky-high in my apartment. These birds have eaten me out of house and home and social interactions. People are afraid to come up on my floor because of the stench. I must traverse the treacherous seas of waste and fowl as I navigate towards my bed to sleep each night. No. More. Birds.
My dazzling love:
On the eighth day of Christmas, I hereby give to thee: eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying…and five golden rings! Plus four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
My dear true love,
Did I hurt you? Did I cause you any grievance? What have I done to you for you to pursue me so vindictively with vile Christmas gifts? My bird complaints were not taken well, apparently. Please know that it is not you that I despise. It is actually the terrifying squeals of twenty-three birds during the ungodly hours of the morning. But no matter the emotional suffering I may have inflicted upon you, I genuinely cannot understand the motives behind sending cows for Christmas. Hypothetically, this would be a simple way to supply me with all the free milk I could ever want. Cheese, steak, and all the foods that my gluttonous self craves would be mine without payment! But these benefits are greatly overshadowed by the negative aspects: it broke my heart when I was forced to sell all five of those gorgeous golden rings you gave me just to pay for one day’s worth of cleaning the combined mess made by twenty-three birds, multiple mooing cows, and eight maids who won’t stop milking the darn cows no matter how I plead with them. This leads me to my next objection regarding your very unorthodox gift: the maids you so graciously bestowed upon me have informed me that they are useless when it comes to cleaning. Anytime I approach them and attempt to ask them for assistance, I am rewarded with this response: “We milk, we milk, we milk!” It seems milking is all they do. They’re overworking the poor cows, milking them day and night. For what purpose, I have no idea. That brings up another point: you seem to think it’s a wonderful idea to give me eight WOMEN as a gift, which raises alarming human trafficking concerns. I’m pretty convinced that I don’t want my true love to be in the trafficking business.
My sweetheart:
On the ninth day of Christmas, I hereby give to thee: nine ladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying…and five golden rings! Plus four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
My dear true love,
Now you have really gone off the wall. You obviously thought “alarming human trafficking concerns” was some kind of sick compliment. Nine ladies enthusiastically wiggling their hips at me, if that constitutes as dancing, is a disturbing sight to see, especially if your landlord chooses to perform a random apartment inspection and walks in the very moment they are showcasing their special “Jelly Belly” illusion move. I have no clue where or how you acquired these women, but all I can say is that I’m sure it involved the black market in some way. Not a redeeming quality for you, my love. They reject any and all human interactions, instead opting to convulse nonstop and refer to it as a “sophisticated art form”. Seventeen people and twenty-three birds are too much to take for my one-bedroom apartment, in case you’ve forgotten. A noxious aroma of body odor and bird poop now graces my residence. It’s so fragrant that the tenants all the way down on the first floor have petitioned to bomb my room to remove the scent. Whatever you want, please, just leave me be.
My smart, fierce darling:
On the tenth day of Christmas, I hereby give to thee: ten lords a-leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying…and five golden rings! Plus four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
My dear true love…
That twisted brain of yours has interpreted the trafficking allegations as complaints of gender inequality between the hostages you’ve given me. Ten human men, members of nobility, no less, who are somehow bound to me by indentured servitude. I really have no desire to learn how you obtained these “lords”. In addition, this immediately unearths a generous helping of ethical and psychological concerns. Even more distressing, the landlord has not said a word to me since he conducted his inspection of my apartment. I’m terrified of the prospective results of my landlord’s inspection. Much like their female counterparts, the lords only speak two words – “We’re lords” – before prancing away in their prissy bard costumes (which look cheaply made, by the way). Furthermore, we were always told that the most efficient method of travel from point A to B is in a straight line, but according to these men, frog-leaping is the way to go. I give up.
My adored:
On the eleventh day of Christmas, I hereby give to thee: eleven pipers piping, ten lords a-leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying…and five golden rings! Plus four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
My not-so-dear true love,
I implore you, why must you do this? Why must you torment me so? Eleven buff “pipers” muscled their happy way into my apartment today. I was internally hoping to the heavens that they would depart swiftly and peacefully, but noooo! What did they do? Take a wild guess! These pipers (their body figures equivalent to that of the Incredible Hulk’s) retrieved goddamn tooting pipes and began to make my life even more of a living hell by brutally establishing a never-ending loop of infernal piccolo shrieks. Naturally, this antagonized the poop right out of my demonic bird collection. Do you think they handled the situation maturely? No. Did they proceed to howl like maniacs? Did they attack the humans (I’m not complaining, though)? Did the ocean of poop fly out onto every object in the entire room? IF YOU GUESSED ALL THREE, YOU’RE CORRECT! This is IT! I have had enough of these “gifts” that have ruined my life! You must be Satan in disguise. There’s no other explanation for your despicable actions.
To the very apple of my eye:
On the twelfth day of Christmas, I hereby give to thee: twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten lords a-leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying…and five golden rings! Plus four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
My dear former acquaintance:
What can I say? Being inappropriate with your gifts is quickly becoming a favorite habit of yours. You acted as a proxy to summon twelve topless drummers, every one of which has the exact same face as what’s-his-name, Dwaynie Johnson, that famous wrestler/actor guy. Their muscles jiggle bizarrely like marionettes when they slam and slam their drums over and over again with their flimsy drumsticks. For a few ethereal moments, all the chaos, the suspicious humans, the enraged birds, all of it, just drifted away, and I relaxed in the blissful, soothing sound of Dwaynie Johnson look-alikes drumming in harmony. But by this point I had had it with your nonsense, so I forced all the humans out. What about the birds, you might ask? Well, thanks to the sheer clamoring of the foul fowl, my poor apartment collapsed into rubble and debris. With any luck, my little feathery friends will have been crushed in the heap of broken stone. I’m writing this reply while sitting on the most stable piece of former apartment wall, scribbling as I hear police sirens wailing in the distance. There’s no doubt at all: I’m going to jail because of your Christmas gifts.
You and I? We are done. Find yourself a new soulmate to send nightmarish gifts to.
Sending all of my hatred,
Your (former) true love
My true love:
Please! Stay with me! I promise to send better gifts, you’ll see! Please come back! I need you!
Oh, look! Here! Will this flock of twenty ducks a-quacking change your mind?