Happy Birthday, J. D. Salinger!
Dear J. D.,
Happy 85th Birthday!
Look, J. D., we really wanted to throw you a surprise party, but you won’t leave your house, you agoraphobic maniac. What are we supposed to do, silently sneak into your kitchen and scare the jelly out of you when you come staggering downstairs wearing your slippers and an old-timey nightgown and cap for your early-morning eye-opener of Maker’s Mark? Why can’t you just come down to the T.G.I. Friday’s at nine o’clock Sunday night and feign flattered surprise when everybody jumps out? Rushdie’s got a fatwah on his head, and he’s still gonna be there! Nobody’s going to steal the 50,000-page manuscript you’ve been rewriting for the past half-century, you deranged old bat! Just come to Friday’s and act all surprised, O.K.? Even Finding Forrester ventured out in the end, J. D.
P.S. Do you pronounce it “Ba-sing-er” or “Ba-sinj-er”?