I was born on December 27th. As those born on that same day
can attest; we do not receive birthday presents. We, the wretched luckless, do
no not receive presents because, as most of you know, December 27th is also
Gerard Depardieu’s birthday. Six months ago, I started writing the French
acting legend letters informing him that he ruined my childhood.
Dear Mr. Depardieu,
For most children the
holidays are a joyous time of year. I, however, was born on December 27th 1975;
twenty-seven years to the day after the curtains were first raised on your own
existence, and only a short thirteen months after your breakout performance in
Bertrand Blier’s Going Places. In life it is generally agreed that timing is
everything. Timing, as you can see, has cast me in the unrelenting, unyielding,
unpitying shadow of Gerard Depardieu.
I am not alone. I am only one
of thousands who has been subjected to the annual pain of that well known
holiday cost-cutting tactic employed against children by their parents. The
scene is the same the world over. You are handed a single carefully wrapped
present and casually told: “This is your present for your birthday and Gerard
Depardieu’s birthday.”
For me (I mentioned others
born on December 27th out of a much needed sense of solidarity, but do consider
my situation to be unique and particularly traumatizing) the injustices did not
end there. With my sister’s birthday safely in April she has received twice the
presents that I have throughout our lives. Add this to the fact that my parents
always take her side and that, despite being a year my junior, she is now a
homeowner while I still use a flip phone, and you can picture a developmentally
stunting home life out from which few could climb.
It seems to me that the only
fair way for this situation to be resolved, and I want you to know I’ve toiled
over the details of this, is for you to reimburse me for the thirty-six
birthday presents you have cost me. You may notice, and I count this as
evidence of my pure motives, that thirty-six is a strictly symbolic number. If
you consider all of the aunts, uncles, cousins, and girlfriends who, thanks to
you, repeatedly gypped me, you owe me an incalculable number of presents. But I
am not in search of a windfall. I only desire closure and the ability to move
on with my life.
As this is the ninth letter I
have written you, I’m beginning to suspect that we stand divided on where your
moral responsibilities lie. You’re forcing my hand here, Depardieu. I may not
have put things strenuously enough in my first eight letters (although it seems
to me that a person as perceptive as a piece of French oak probably starts to
sense a man means business around letter five or six). So, let me put it
plainly - I want those presents! I’m serious. If you think I’m bluffing, allow
me to quote the immortal words uttered by Marquis De Sade during a little
revolution you may remember: Try me.
I live at 346 Thomas Drive, Paramus, New Jersey, also known
as my parent’s house. A 1950’s style Cape Cod. I’m still there as a result of
dropping out of college, mishandling a few credit cards, and being such an
emotional wreck over this birthday present business. Mail my presents there.
Make sure to address the packages to me or else, as sure as I’m unemployed, my
parents will open them, give them to my sister, and then we’re back where we
started.
That’s all for now. Bidding you a Happy Holidays would seem
beside the point.
Expectantly,
