To whom it may concern,
My name is Frantz Carvalho and ten years ago I immigrated to the United States from the country of Babusuland. Please forgive my English; it is my fourth language, and as a result, my vocabulary may seem rudimentary and my grasp of your country’s nuanced vernacular may appear enervated.
I was a successful carpenter in my own country, but violent internecine conflict forced me to flee. Upon arriving in America, I dreamed of starting my own small business selling beautiful wooden furniture, and then, once I had achieved financial security, I hoped to marry a fine woman and fill our home with the dulcet sound of laughing, joyful children. I am proud to say that I have achieved these goals.
However, recent events have introduced turmoil into my life. I was in my workshop last week when my wife Mirlande knocked upon the door and beckoned me to come see the TV.
On the news, a United States Congressman named John Michaelson was being interviewed. He said that he had four biological children and one adopted child whose name was Frantz Carvalho. Then they showed a photo of me on TV.
I had never met Mr. John Michaelson in my life. Also, I am 47 years old, and he is 51, so I don’t know how he could be my adopted father. He would have had to have been a very precocious child. Also, my birth parents are very much alive. They live in Florida now and I visit them twice a year.
The next day, a limousine pulled up in front of my home. Rep. Michaelson stepped out of it and gave me a hug and told me he was going to take me away from all my poverty and treat me to the life I deserved. I told him that I make $95,000 per year and my wife and children would miss me. He laughed boisterously and ushered me into the limousine. He had several large men with him. I hoped that if I went with him, I could clear up this obvious misunderstanding.
This has not been the case. On the drive back to his home, I attempted to tell Rep. Michaelson that I was not his adopted child. He just kept saying, “Oh, Frantz, you’ve always been such a kidder.” Then he gifted me a Nintendo Switch. While I was grateful for the Switch and the exciting world of interactive adventure it offered, I remained deeply confused and troubled.
Since then, I have been staying in a room in Rep. Michaelson’s home. I sleep in a bed shaped like a racing car. It is too short and my feet get cold at night. Every time I try to leave, Rep. Michaelson intercepts me before I can leave the property and challenges me to a game of catch. Then he takes me out for ice cream. While I appreciate the ice cream, I am becoming concerned that I have been kidnapped.
I have fielded a great many questions from the media in the last week. They all want to know how Rep. Michaelson came to adopt me. I try to tell them that I am not adopted but rather I am a successful 47-year-old carpenter who is being held against his will for unclear reasons, and they laugh and laugh. They think I have a great sense of humor.
Last night, Rep. Michaelson told me that he was giving me a laptop. He said the laptop has on it a program called “Covenant Eyes” that will allow me to monitor his internet usage and make sure that he does not visit any indecent websites. I told him I did not want to be the custodian of his onanism, but he insisted. This is all very strange and terrible and I want to go back to my wife and children. I have a contract to deliver a teak conference table that I really need to finish.
I have a hard time sleeping at night because Rep. Michaelson stays up late ranting loudly about how all birth control should be outlawed and how the devil buried dinosaur bones to trick mankind. I am beginning to think that he might be insane, but everyone else acts as though nothing is out of the ordinary. I stole a spoon at dinner and have begun sharpening the handle. Also, the food here is very bland.
To whomever finds this letter, please contact the Babusuland Embassy and ask if they can liberate me from Rep. Michaelson. I have begun to feel like I’m living in a funhouse, a world where everything is wrong and crazy and disjointed yet everyone around me acts as though it’s perfectly normal.
Of course, I don’t expect you Americans to understand that feeling.