[On the morning of the 25th, wherever the hell Graham's staying, there is a nicely wrapped package, with a written letter tucked in at the top, next to a large ribbon.
Inside his present is a container of (now cold) spaghetti, a knit hat in black, and several bones.
Opening the letter reveals a maybe somewhat familiar font, which says:]
GRAHAM,
MERRY CHRISTMAS! THE BONES ARE FOR YOUR DOG FRIEND. I WANTED TO GET YOU TWO MATCHING PRESENTS, BUT IT'S AWFUL, THEY DON'T SELL HATS FOR DOGS HERE?? UNBELIEVABLE. I'M GOING TO HAVE TO SPEAK TO MANAGEMENT ABOUT THIS.
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Inside his present is a container of (now cold) spaghetti, a knit hat in black, and several bones.
Opening the letter reveals a maybe somewhat familiar font, which says:]
GRAHAM,
MERRY CHRISTMAS! THE BONES ARE FOR YOUR DOG FRIEND. I WANTED TO GET YOU TWO MATCHING PRESENTS, BUT IT'S AWFUL, THEY DON'T SELL HATS FOR DOGS HERE?? UNBELIEVABLE. I'M GOING TO HAVE TO SPEAK TO MANAGEMENT ABOUT THIS.
NYEHFULLY YOURS,
PAPYRUS