JONNY NEEDS A JACKALOPE

Dear Jonny,
Now, don't think Nancy or I forgot your birthday. On the contrary. For the last two weeks we've been laying low in Cheyenne, Wyoming, hunting a mighty fine jackalope just for you.
I'm not saying it was easy. I'm not saying it was pretty. But we did it. And I'm a better person because of it. I discovered inner peace and conquered existentialism. I was at once devolving and evolving. It became crystal clear during our first attempts at wrangling up an elk for you.
I said, "An elk for Jonny? Nah. Way to gauche. I mean, have some fucking class, you know?"
So we went back to square one. We chewed on our hair and mulled over the subtleties of cheese dip whilst thinking up the best birthday gift for you. Then it came to us like a bolt of lightning.
"A J-A-C-K-A-L-O-P-E."
The words were uttered slowly at first, and then faster. Soon, it reached a feverish pitch, and we were foaming at the mouth.
The sun beat down on the back of our necks. I forgot my own name. I recognized Nancy not as Nancy, but as Buckskin-Baddie, a Sioux Indian with a penchant for bursting into song.
We dined on grouse and pheasant. As I lifted my rough-hewn fork topped with gristle and dead grass, I knew we had done the right thing. We even joined the "Jerk Of The Month" club, and await our wild boar jerky with bated breath.
When I was an itty-bitty baby, Mama told me to fear the jackalope. And here we were, face to face with the beast. He looked like Vin Diesel.
I really don't know what else to say. It ain't no small thing what we did that day up in Wyoming. Ain't no small thing at all.
Sure, Little Jack-- as we like to call him-- is a work of art, rivaling anything Jackson Pollock ever did. (You call that painting?) But our little friend is also taxidermy. And don't you forget it. So when someone looks at Little Jack hangin' high 'bove your fireplace and laughs or cries, you can hold your head high.