University of Oxford
Wellington Square, Oxford
OX1 2JD. UK
March 8, 2003
Dear Oxford University,
Listen, I’m in a bit of a bind here, Oxford, and I could sure use your help. You see, what started as an innocent little white lie six months ago (“Why, yes, I can steer a tugboat…”) has snowballed, as lies often do, into an elaborate web, which has become very tangled, and is not like a snowball at all. Anyway, I was cajoled into “volunteering” to host a dinner party. Among the guests will be my fiancée, Brianna; her father, Professor Von Konstantine; Mister Earl Truddington-Raliegh, C.E.O. of the major media company which employs me; and lastly, Viktor Karthagon, the ambassador from Liechtenstein.
Oxford, it’s all a sham. You see, they are all under the impression that I attended your university (which, between you and me, I didn’t). Now, I’m sure you think that’s a forgivable fib, but if I’m called out on this, then I’ll have to explain a whole lot of lies which were based on the “I’m an Oxford alum” foundation: my friendship with Rhodes Scholar Brittany Murphy, my fluency in Hindi and Dutch, my “Ox” tattoo.
How much does a diploma cost, Oxford? It’s probably really expensive. I’m prepared to offer US$300. What do you say? It doesn’t even have to be real; you can even write “Not a Real Diploma” on it, very small and someplace near the bottom, so it will be officially a not real diploma, officially granting me no degree in anything at all, but I can fool my dinner guests with a carefully chosen frame. I have a nice frame picked out. I think this can work. My entire future rests on you, Oxford. My marriage. My job. A possible international incident. As you know, Liechtenstein is not a very stable nation. If this house of cards untangles and desnowballs, I can’t even imagine the global repercussions.
So, Oxford? Think you can help me out?
P.S. You guys make awesome shirts.