A Holiday Open Letter to Ellen Griswold: The Season's Most Tragic Figure
Hi, Ellen. Happy holidays. Hope you and the kids are well. Also, your husband is the literal worst person in the world.
Every year, we accept Clark Griswold as our holiday hero like it’s OK and ignore the biggest victim of his relentless bullshit: you, Ellen. You. You deserve love and attention. Ellen. Ellen, I’m telling you that you deserve love. You deserve so much more. Ellen. Ellen, do you get what I’m saying, Ellen? You can do better. Way better than Clark. ELLEN. ELLEN, YOU LISTEN TO ME.
I mean, other people get it. Your wholly relatable neighbors that the move seems to think of as the villains? THEY GET IT.
I mean, you tried to tell Clark you didn’t want both sets of parents over for Christmas, but he insisted. Then he immediately left to go do his light fuckery, leaving you to the parent wolves. You married a man who left you alone to go staple himself to your goddamn house, Ellen. He took out power across Chicago just for his dipshit Christmas lights, ruining your beautiful home. ELLEN.
Then there’s the tree. Ellen.
ELLEN THAT TREE IS TOO BIG.
IT DOESN’T FIT IN YOUR HOUSE, ELLEN. YOUR DAUGHTER’S EYES FROZE SHUT AND YOU HAD TO DIG IT OUT PRESUMABLY WITH YOUR HANDS. ELLEN. ELLEN. NO, THERE’S NOT ENOUGH ROOM FOR THE ANGEL, ELLEN. ELLEN! THE WINDOW IS BROKEN, ELLEN.
Most importantly…Ellen, honey, he is FOREVER trying to cheat on you. Like, FOREVER. And somehow almost succeeding multiple times even though his face looks like the last thing you see before you die.
He can’t even go to goddamn Water Tower without verbally molesting the woman at the sales counter. For several minutes. ELLEN. THAT’S TOO MANY MINUTES TO SEXUALLY HARASS A WOMAN EVEN BY 1989 STANDARDS, ELLEN.
This is the only way anyone should ever look at Clark Griswold.
Ellen, you are a beautiful precious angel with a positive outlook and a ceaseless optimism. You are loving and forgiving and a good mother. And you are wasting it. LOVE YOURSELF. ELLEN. ELLEN, LOVE YOURSELF.
Merry Christmas, Ellen. Your husband is trash.
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