The following is from McSweeney's monthly newsletter. Happy holidays!

A N O P E N L E T T E R
By John Moe

TO: "THE GRINCH"
FROM: MAX, YOUR FORMER FRIEND AND DOG

Dear Steven,

It's been several months now since you left and I remained here on Crumpit
in the home we built together. I think it's important that I share my
feelings. I hate you, Steven. Hate hate hate you. I hate you now.

For years we stood for something: we hated the Whos. Like we always said, if
it weren't for Christmas and the Whos' infernal screeching of "carols", we
would have had absolute quiet all year long. And isn't that why we moved to
Mt. Crumpit in the first place, Steven? Isn't that silence the very reason
we left the city? Every December, our meditation, gardening, and literary
work were shattered with "Wahoo-Boraice" or whatever that stupid song was
(have you learned it yet? Well, have you?). The Whos ruined our lives.
Annually. And then you joined them. And why? WHY?! Because you heard them
sing! The one thing that made us hate them all those years. It would be
comical if it didn't involve the death of both of our souls. Who was I
living with all those years? Honestly, if you know, tell me, Steven.

I don't know what kind of lies the Whos have been filling your head with
since you moved there, but I want to just remind you of something. There was
nothing wrong with your heart. I have, in our big file cabinet, the report
from the doctor that says that while your heart was abnormally small (5th
percentile), it was still completely functional and that unless you intend
to run a triathlon, you're fine. And all that aside, your heart has nothing
to do with your emotions. You left your Zoloft here, by the way. If you
haven't picked up a new prescription, I will send it down to you but you
should really renew it.

Alone up here on Crumpit for the last several months, my thoughts have
turned to the night of the Perfectly Awful Idea and how it proved so
imperfect. In retrospect, there were many mistakes. You shouldn't have worn
a Santa suit (cute, yes, and provided a good cover, but if you had worn the
Lycra jumper I ordered, the operation would have taken a fraction of the
time). Also, you shouldn't have engaged Cindy Lou Who. At all. I'm not sure
what kind of inverted Stockholm Syndrome took place while I waited on the
Roof, but I do know that it all could have been solved with a hard shove and
a quick exit (and again, it could have been avoided entirely with the
Lycra). Additionally, we should have stashed the Christmas crap and then
left town right away -- the shore, Cozumel, my parents' place even. Had I
known the brainwashing power of that song, I would have made sure about
that.

But really, the problem was the Whos. They're stupid, Steven. People who get
robbed and then sing with joy are stupid people. We applied a logical
solution to a problem but it didn't work because these Whos are sub-logical.
Pre-logical, I think. Witnessing their senselessness, I began to see them
not as people but like a swarm of singing bees (and in time, I will deal
with them accordingly). And now, you've gone to live with them. In a --
what? a hut? -- I can't blame them any more for being who they are. Perhaps
I can't even blame you for being who you evidently were all along. Perhaps I
can only blame myself for seeing you as the one I spent all those years
with, the one I thought shared my yearning for solitude and my deep and
justified hatred for everyone else. But that was not you. You are a Who.

Enjoy the roast beast. Whatever. Asshole.

Max