Our Gal Sal and her Mail Bag

Game on, and it appeared my brother had brought a sling shot to a gun fight.

To my sister's advantage:

3-digit IQ? Check.
Vast vocabulary? Check.
Agile command of the English language and ability to make a point? Check.
Willingness to verbally hack him to collops? Check.

He had opened Pandora's Box and there was no stuffing the ugliness back in.

My sister, possessing a PC and having full facility with the use of email as a communication tool, did not have to sharpen and resharpen half a dozen pencils to compose her response. She sent me an email of the draft response, which was clearly a stream of conscious rant that Dennis Miller would have been proud to have spewed.

Blistering.
Articulate.
Succinct in its description of quite a number of infractions (clearly designed for him to painfully relive).
Brilliant.

But he, not having an email address or regular access to a computer (How do their kids survive middle school assignments???) would have to receive his response in the same way in which his had been sent. In a printed letter.

My sister sent the pages to print and then carefully folded and stuffed and addressed and stamped the whole shootin' match, and then gratifyingly placed it into the mailbox.

I can only imagine his trepidation upon spotting the envelope in his mailbox. The mystery would have to gnaw away at him... would it be good news or bad news? Maybe he'd just bring it into the house and think about when he would open it... in a moment of reflectiveness, and solitude, and far from the madding crowd he calls his family.

Or perhaps, his shrew wife plucks it from the mailbox or the dining table and has no such trepidation. And never having been a big fan of either of Joe's sisters, upon reading it, embarks on an apocalyptic tear that can be heard the world over.

Giddyup!