Cajun Christmas

Day 1: Dear Boudreaux, Thanks for de bird in de Pear tree. I fix it las' night with dirty rice. I don' tink de pear tree will grow in de swamp, so I swap it for a Satsuma.

Day 2: Dear Boudreaux, You letter say you sent two turtle doves, but all I got was two scrawny pigeons. Anyway, I mixed dem with andouille an made some gumbo out of dem.

Day 3: Dear Boudreaux, Why don' you sent some crawfish? I'm tired of eating dem damn birds. I gave two of dose prissy French chickens to Marie Trahan over at Grand Bayou an fed the tird one to my dog Phideaux. Marie needed some sparing partners for her fighting rooster.

Day 4: Dear Boudreaux, Mon Dieux! I tole you no more damn birds. Deez four, what you call dem "calling birds" were so noisy you could hear dem all de way to Napoleonville. I used dair necks for my crab traps, an fed derest to de gators.

Day 5: Dear Boudreaux, You finally sent sometin' useful. I like dem golden rings, me. I hocked dem at da pawn shop in Thibodeaux and got enough money to fix da shaft on my shrimp boat an buy a round for daboys at de Raisin' Cane Lounge. Merci Beaucoup!

Day 6: Dear Boudreaux, Couchon! Back to da birds, you coonass turkey! Poor egg suckin' Phideaux is scared to death at dem six geeses. He tried to eat dem eggs and dey peck de heck out ah his snout. Dey good at eating cockroaches, though. I may stuff one of dem wit oysters dressing on Christmas day.

Day 7: Dear Boudreaux, I'm gonna wring your fool neck next time I see you. Thibeau, da mailman, is ready to kill you. The mess from all dem birds is stinkin' up his mailboat. He afraid someone will slip on dat stuff and sue him good. I let those seven swans loose to swim on debayou and some duck hunters from Mississippi blasted dem out of dewater. Talk to you tomorrow.

Day 8: Dear Boudreaux, poor ole Thibeau, he had to make tree trips on his mailboat to deliver dem 8 maids a milkin' and their cows. One of dem cows got spooked by da alligators and almost tipped over da boat. I don' like dem shiftless maids, me no. I tole dem to get to work guttin' fish and sweepin' the shack but dey say it wasn't in dair contract. Dey probably think dey too good to skin nutrias I caught las' night.

Day 9: Dear Boudreaux, What you trying to do huh? Thibeau had to borrow the Lutcher ferry to carry dem jumpin' twits you call Lords-a-Leaping across the bayou. As soon as dey got here dey wanted a tea break with crumpets. I don' know what dat means but I says, "Well La Di Da. You get Chicory coffee or nuttin'." Mon Dieu, Emile. What I'm gonna feed all dese bozos? Dey too snooty for fried nutria, and de cows done eat my turnip greens. I had to get toilet paper; too. The Sears catalog wasn't good enough fo' dose hoity toity Lords' royal behin.

Day 10: Dear Boudreaux, You got to be outs you mind! If de mailman don' kill you, I will fo sure. Today he deliver 10 half naked floozies from Bourbon Street. Dey said dey "Ladies Dancin" but dey don' act like ladies in front of dose Limey twits. Dey almos' lef' after one of dem got bit by a water moccasin over by da out-house.

Day 11: Dear Boudreaux, where y'at? Cheerio an pip pip. Your 11 pipers piping arrived today from the House of Blues, second lining as dey got off de boat. We fixed stuffed goose and beef jambalaya, finished dawhiskey and we having a fais-do-do. Da new mailman he drink a bottle of Jacques Daniel an he having a good time, yeah, dancing with de floozies. Thibeau he jump off de Sunshine Bridge yesterday, screaming your name. If you get a mysterious, ticking package in de mail, don' open it.

Day 12: Dear Boudreaux, I sorry to tell you but I'm not your true love anymore, no. After de fais-do-do, I spent de night with Jacque, de head piper. We decide to open a restaurant and gentleman's club on de bayou in Morgan City. We gonna call it Mr. Lucky's! The floozies, pardon me, Ladies-dancing can make $20 for a table dance, and de Lords can be waiters an valet park de cars and boats. Since de maids don' have no more cows ta milk, I trained dem ta set my crab traps, watch my trotlines, an run my shrimpin' bidness. We will probably gross a million bucks

Nex' year.