So my buddy Mike told me that my goddaughter got accepted to the university she had listed as her first choice. By way of congratulations, I sent her the following email, which dovetails with her special sense of humor:
I understand, from your father, that you were rejected by [school name redacted], your first choice of college to attend. I just wanted you to know that I always suspected you'd be rejected. You've never struck me as the type to go far in life; to be quite honest, I've long imagined you living out your best years blinded by massive drug use, chased by rabid dogs, and taunted by demented midgets as you crawl, enormously pregnant, through the back streets of Amsterdam—probably catching leprosy at some point, just to add icing to the cake.
The comfort I offer you, on the occasion of your rejection, is this: life goes on because the world simply doesn't care. And take heart: one day, the pain of this rejection will disappear the moment you experience even greater soul-agony at the hands of the lover who betrays you, or the friend who gossips behind your back, or the parent who charges at you, bellowing and swinging a chef's knife while spewing the vilest of obscenities.
There's little else to say, O my goddaughter. I would weep for you, but I can't seem to stop myself from laughing uproariously at your misery. Your third-choice school was the University of Bovine Excrement, yes? Well, I'm sure you'll have fun there, learning the ins and outs of digestion, decay, fetor, and putrescence, as befits my assessment of your potential. Somewhere in the world, there is a gnarled throne waiting for you to claim it, so that all may bear witness and proclaim you Queen of Mucus.
I now pat you condescendingly on the head,
Kevin, your godfather in all sooth
I'm sure she'll get the humor. Would be a shame if she threw herself off a high tower because of what I've written.