From the Archives of the Smithsonian

Dear Martha,

This sucks. The weather is ridiculous. The Delaware is way too wide. I hate it. We’ll never make it across. I don’t even know why I signed up for this crap. The snows are not letting up at all. Some of the men have worn through their boots, and the frostbite has already begun to take its awful toll. Our supplies are running low. We’ve finished the entire hundred cases of Sam Adams we had brought from Philadelphia. Then the hundred cases of Red Stripe. We drank the Rolling Rock in two nights. I don’t even know whose idea it was to buy that. We only have one case of Budweiser remaining. I am praying to God, to give us the strength, to find some store where we can get a case of Amstel Light.

Yesterday, one of our supply wagons fell into a gorge. Can you believe that? A fucking gorge. It had four cases of Smirnoff Ice. Lost! We still have the three cases of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Which is okay. But then the worst, one of our canons sank right into the mud. What a tragedy. I had stashed two bottles of Negro Modelo down the barrel. I was really looking forward to those.

Some of the men don’t even have rifles. It’s terrible. I sold them to get a case of Harpoon IPA. I have written the Congress to tell them of our grave situation. We desperately need reinforcements. And they need to bring at least six cases of Pilsner Urquell.

I gave the Bacardi Silver to some local Indian chiefs. Hopefully they won’t try any before we’re long gone. That stuff is awful.

Which got me to thinking. I really do miss you, Martha. Those long walks in the back yard, sitting on the veranda, sipping Goldschläger. Can you believe they forgot to bring the Ace Pear Cider? I mean of all the stupid things to forget? God dammit. I am missing you Martha. Your tender touch. Kissing you in the balmy night, the taste of Absolute Cherry still on your lips. God I hate Bacardi Silver.

I will write again as soon as I can move.

Your Loving Husband,

George