Office of the Prime Minister
Oranjestad, Aruba
Netherlands Antilles
Dear Honorable Mr. Prime Minister:
How very sneaky of you to let that freaky Dutch kid out of jail just when we’ve got our backs turned with the whole ugly mess on the Gulf Coast. I assure you America is still paying attention to the plight of our friends Jug and Beth Twitty, who are very telegenic and patriotic Alabamans, as you well know—and whose names, like most everyone else in this tragedy, could not have been dreamed up better by a Big Deal Hollywood Screenwriter.
Jug recently told Nancy Grace, the equally well-cast feisty former prosecutor whose repeated requests for an interview with you have been ignored, that the little psychopath should have just come clean to begin with. In that case, since they hadn’t previously caught him drugging and raping the tourist girls, he would have only done about five years. But, no, here comes that dorky father of his, the toy Aruban judge, sticking his upturned, Dutch, cheese-eating nose into things while guaranteeing that these poor folks would never again see their girl, dead or alive. Does it not bother anyone that he and Jeffrey Dahmer could have been separated at birth?
You should know that I was once a successful travel writer with an audience of millions, and in fact formerly contributed to the Flimsy Little In-Flight Magazine of your Sub-Standard National Airline. I never much cared for your island, and always thought the whole overlit, lunar landscape, “desert oasis” angle was a bit of a tough sell. Besides which, we all know the diving is better on Bonaire, and the architecture is cuter in Curaçao. You won't find an Aruban restaurant anywhere else on earth because your food has no discernable personality—especially when compared to that of the competition from the real Europeans cooking on neighboring Martinique and St. Martin. That’s the French side, mind you, not the red-headed Dutch stepchild of St. Maarten. I understand you are up for re-election and have recently filed a defamation suit against one of Aruba’s most respected newspapermen, a recent heart attack victim. I regret to inform you that I have nothing much for you to come after, as I am now Another Hollywood Screenwriter who has neither made any movies nor sold any scripts. However, I assure you that when I do they will not make any reference to Aruba, nor anywhere else in the Dutch Caribbean. Neither will they be researched, shot, cast nor even screened in that region—nor Mother Holland, either.
In fact, I’m going to have to call for a boycott among the six hundred some odd readers of this blog. Not just of Aruba, but of all things Dutch. No clogs, no gouda, no Dutch Boy Paint, no Amstel Light, nor even the heavy stuff. No Double Dutch, neither the chocolate ice cream nor the inner city jump rope game, about which I hear Disney has set up a new movie starring little Raven Simone. Sorry, my precocious urban tween, no can promote. Just when I was thinking I’d never make a difference in this crazy world of ours, I’ve found you, sir. En garde, my Aruban foe! J’accuse! Please feel free to post a comment below. Be forewarned that I spent many years learning how to curse in any number of foreign languages, so don’t try anything funny, Aruba boy.
Yours very truly,
