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Dear Sarah,
What—and I cannot stress this enough—dafuq?
That could be the whole letter, as it really captures the essence of the white-hot, slightly horny rage I feel every time I watch you cockblock yourself with that fucking Nokia, but I honestly feel bad for you, so I’ll spell it out.
YOU SHOULD TURN OFF YOUR PHONE AND FUCK KARL.
Oh my god, girl, how is this even a choice you are weighing??? Here is what we know about your mentally ill brother: He is in some kind of safe, secure facility with professionals to take care of him (and, apparently, give him unlimited phone time). Here is what we know about Karl: He is BURNING LAVA HOT, and his crotch is currently pressed—gently, consensually—against your leg.
(A production office. PRODUCER 1 sits at a desk. Enter PRODUCER 2.)
PRODUCER 1: Take a seat. You said you have something Christmassy for me?
PRODUCER 2: Strap in, buddy. This one’s gonna be a doozy.
PRODUCER 1: Ha! Can’t wait.
PRODUCER 2: Okay, so: Curtain up. It’s Christmas Eve. A young girl named Clara is opening gifts. One happens to be from her favorite uncle, a kind of creepy mask-wearing guy named Drosselmeyer.
PRODUCER 1: Don’t love this…
PRODUCER 2: Hear me out: It’s a nutcracker.
(Pause.)
PRODUCER 1: A what?
PRODUCER 2: It’s a thing, you know, I don’t know. It cracks chestnuts.
PRODUCER 1: So Clara loves chestnuts?
PRODUCER 2: She’s never eaten them.
PRODUCER 1: So she hates the Nutcracker?