:: Regarding a bet ::
Dear Kelsey's money,
Although you likely haven't been informed yet by your current owner – not surprising, as she clings to a faint hope of continuing her ownership of you – you will be packing up and moving soon, from Kelsey's pocket to mine.
You'll be leaving as early as Sunday night, in fact, so pack up your nickels and dimes ahead of time. You see, Mr. Twenty-Dollar Bill, you've been wagered in a foolish bet pitting the New England Patriots – whose coach is a cheater and star wide receiver is an alleged woman-beater – against the saintly San Diego Chargers, whose star running back went to a good Christian university, and whose placekicker looks like an innocent 12-year-old boy.
You'll like it better here, I promise.
No longer will you be alone in a wallet, with no other dollars and cents to keep you company – you'll now be surrounded by friends of all currency, even a few American visitors (I hear that Andrew Jackson fella is a real hoot!) And, even better, you will no longer have to put up with the kind of high-brow, snooty remarks which I'm assuming can only come from a Starbucks Visa card.
"Oh, look at me - I'm worth a triple grande hazelnut. misto, no-foam, extra hot latte," I can imagine it saying. "And look at you – you're just a dirty, used up piece of parchment."
What a bitch. That can be hard for any honest, hard-working $20-bill to put up with. I understand.
It's OK though – you're beer money now. Long may you prosper in the cash registers of seedy pubs, and in the apron pockets of overworked, sexy-in-a-beer-googles-kind-of-way waitresses.
It will be one helluva run, I promise you that. So come on over – you know you want to.
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