Bugger Off, 2020! Hello, 2021!
Hello dear, dear Chickens, Yes, it is I, your beloved bestie and deliciously naughty Dr. Sebastian Brackenridge, coming to you from my well-appointed study in the Scottish Highlands, just spitting distance from Balmoral Castle. I know some of you are thinking, Sebastian, the Highlands.... on January 1st? Are you mad? The answer to this question is yes, I am bat shit crazy, and honestly I have little choice as I am snowed in with my staff of 15! I know! How can I possibly survive? However, we are doing out best.
As I listened to HRH, Queen Elizabeth II deliver her 2020 Christmas Address, I said to myself, self, I adore our Queen and then decided why should she have all the fun! I mean really, it's not like she's the only Queen of England, what about me? I'd like to see if anyone can find a queen bigger than I am! So I got all dressed up, snuck into my mother, Ophelia, the Dowager Duchess of Brackenridge's jewelry collection, grabbed the Lover's Wreath brooch, given to my Grandmother in celebration of the end of WWII by her Majesty, Queen Lily of some Godforsaken Kingdom too small to recall, and here I am. I'm going to have to be quick as I think Mother has a silent alarm on the vault and she may be hunting me down as I speak.
As 2020 has delivered its' final death rattle, what a malicious, syphilis-ridden bloody mess you've turned out to be, it is with great hope in my heart and mind, and energy in my loins that I welcome her sister, 2021, who is already proving to not only be prettier, she lost over 27.8571 stone with the results of the American Presidential Election, but is also proving to be kinder, an overall top-drawer kind of year you wouldn't mind taking home to meet mother because isn't family time so much more pleasanter when you can bring someone home that makes all the tossers your sister parades past the family look all the more worse? I think so and I hope you share my opinion, and for the last time, Gloria, how is it my fault you've got horrible taste in men and can't help yourself leaving slug trails on any man that stands still for 5 seconds. But I digress.
2020 put everyone to the test, with the COVID-19 outbreak, the upheaval taking place in the United States, you can be sure, USA, King George III is dying to ask you how you like him now, and of course, the stepping down from Royal Duties of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, which has been of a head scratcher, but naturally I wish them and darling little Archie the best.
But, 2020 also proved how we stood up and came together during COVID-19. We wept together with each life lost, we wore our masks and followed guidelines that were scientifically based, and we sacrificed. Like you, I suffer from COVID-19 exhaustion. Frustrated with those who refuse to do what is right. Frustrated with world leaders who have committed a dereliction of duty that I hope we will never see the likes again. Frustrated that I'm not able to see family and friends, and yes, even though life is good at Brackenridge Hall and my mother, Ophelia, the Dowager Duchess of Brackenridge, and I have not gone wanting for much, we realized that not everyone is as blessed as we are. So, dear chickens, remember to do your part and wear a mask, continue social distancing, and if you are able, support your local food bank and other charities that are helping out those who are not as blessed as each of us are.
In closing, I'd like to offer a simple prayer that each of you stay safe, that we love each other, and remind ourselves, there for the grace of God go I. How lucky we are to have each other. How much I hate yoga pants being worn outside of a yoga studio. I mean really, ladies, they aren't pants and nobody wants to see your camel toe while shopping at the local grocer. It's enough to put me off of clams and tacos. And while I'm at it, How much I detest Crocks. Dear lord, if there is anything that sends a message of, "I've given up and I'm on my way to buy several Dunkin Hines frosting I plan to eat out of the package", it would be crocks. How much I detest Boris Johnson's haircut. (Does anyone like it?) Seriously, Prime minister, it's called a comb. Some hair product could go a long way on that mop of yours. Being considered the British Trump is not flattering...in the least. Sorry, chickens, as always, I digress. and finally, how grateful I am for you, my dear chickens!
Hugs and kisses,