Dear Parents of the X,
I know what you did last summer. Well, maybe it was like six summers ago. But that doesn't change the fact that I know what you did. I saw the photographs. I caught you riding the KINKY express, shopping at the FreakALeek Department Store, flying the SEXaHolic Airways — and I'm still not sure how to get over it.
You went on vacation and left your dirty secrets on top of the washer. OK, they were tucked inside a brown paper bag, placed in the far back corner of your sink cabinet, and I shouldn't have been looking there. But I needed some soap (or something better to do than stare at the TV).
So here is this lunch bag under your sink. Of course, I opened it. And that's when I saw you, X's Mom turned Marilyn Monroe. Your back was pressed against the COBRA sports car I went to the PROM in. You belonged on some beach in France. Only in the background was your country home and the basketball hoop where we played PONY, wearing shirts, not skins.
I wish I could say I put these prints back in their cover and returned them to their rack... But I couldn't help myself.
"Miiiiike!" I yelled to your son. "You gotta see this!!!!"
You should have seen him curl up in a ball and cry like a sissy. Priceless.
Well, that's it. That's what I wanted to tell you. Oh yeah, and that I learned something from you, that not all passions eventually turn to ash. Some people know when to get out the lighter fluid. It's just too bad you didn't set those photos on fire after the heat of the moment passed.