I love my grandmother dearly and I respect all grandmothers—except one. Harriet Schwenk, I don’t know where you get off, but I deserved those flowers from Elton John’s dressing room in Duluth.

This article says that you’ve been gallivanting around Duluth showing off that huge bouquet of flowers that were in Elton John’s dressing room for his show at the Amsoil Arena, but it doesn’t say why you, of all people, deserved to get those flowers.

So you’re 93? And what? And what? There are people in this world who are one hundred years old, and I don’t see them lining up backstage waiting for a glimpse of the greatest performer who’s ever lived. In fact, gee, now that I think about it, I didn’t see you there either, Harriet!

But you didn’t have to wait, did you? No. Because of some mysterious connection you have to some shady promoter who doesn’t even live in Duluth any more, you got your very own private backstage tour. That’s just lovely, Harriet, but would you mind telling us just how you earned that special treatment? Did it involve Viagra? I’m not making any accusations, I’m just asking.

If you give me any lyric to any Elton John song—any Elton John song—I’ll tell you what line comes next, and I’ll tell you whether it was written by Bernie Taupin or by one of the inferior collaborators with whom Elton has occasionally worked.

I’ve seen Elton John 74 times. How many times have you seen him, Harriet? Is he even your favorite singer, or do you prefer someone from an earlier era, like that wife-abuser Frank Sinatra? Be honest, please. It’s the least you can do for me right now.

I own an odor-killing insert from a shoe belonging to Elton’s husband David Furnish. I bought it on eBay, and I’m not ashamed about it. I consider it a fun conversation piece, and a valuable investment.

In short, Harriet, I’m just a little worked up right now, and you would really give me some peace of mind if you could just please tell me why you deserve those flowers. Do you just think they’re pretty flowers, or would you cherish—as I would—the possibility that Elton lowered that beautifully pug-like little nose into one of their blossoms and inhaled deeply, perhaps gently nuzzling one of those long, ever-so-slightly curving pistils?

Have you thought about that? I have. I’ve thought about it all day, and into the night.

Sigh.

Screw you, Harriet!

– Jay Gabler

Also see: How to have a glamorous time in Duluth without Elton John’s help