Please accept my heartfelt appreciation for your willingness to look after the Chosen One on this most beautiful day. As you no doubt understand, the mental and physical demands of safeguarding so important a child makes it nearly impossible to find any time for reflection and leisure. I will treasure the opportunity to replenish my chi so that I might better serve His Grace upon my return. If you need to reach me, I will be at the John Hughes film festival on 30th Avenue. Need I say that if the Chosen One were not the Chosen One, then Judd Nelson would be the Chosen One? I ponder this often.

Anyway, please observe the following throughout the day:

Do not, under any condition, let the Chosen One consume fawn’s blood. I know this doesn’t seem likely to come up. However, not a week goes by without some minion of darkness trying to get fawn’s blood into the child. It’s tiresome, but it’s also part of the job. A tainted Chosen One is a vulnerable Chosen One.

Speaking of food, the Chosen One may have one Snak Pak with his cartoons in the afternoon. He’s usually fine with this, but if he gives you a hard time and wants more, just give in, for he is the Chosen One and that’s not something you want to fuck with. In fact, giving in is a smart play all around, unless the fawn’s-blood thing comes up. Stay firm on that.

The Chosen One must face and contemplate the ills of our world so that he may better bring about a golden age. Make sure he watches at least an hour of world news. BBC, of course; we don’t want him forming his opinions based on Anderson Cooper’s version. The last Chosen One abandoned his purpose after watching MSNBC and now drives a cab decorated with Christmas lights and pictures of celebrities.

In an emergency, do not contact a hospital. The Chosen One must learn to heal himself if he is to heal the world. Place him in a dark room and await his glorious emergence. Inspect him to ensure that his body is free of injury or blemish. Then give the Chosen One a ginger ale and supplicate yourself before him. Our household believes that positive reinforcement is necessary after trying times. Should he still feel ill, give him an aspirin, but tell him it’s a placebo.

If the Chosen One’s eyes should roll back into his head while he utters nonsensical phrases in a strange foreign tongue, the tape recorder is in the kitchen “stuff” drawer. Extra batteries may be found in the same drawer. You must record this, even if you think he’s screwing with you. He may be, or he may be telling you the secrets of the universe or the cure for cancer. Even if it turns out to be the recipe for a great apple crumble, I’d still prefer that the precautions be taken.

Should the apocalypse occur, just let him do his thing. I suspect, since he’s the Chosen One, that instinct will take over and he’ll just sort things out.

Once again, you have my gratitude for accepting this responsibility. I shall return to the Chosen One at the appointed hour. If I am a little late, you shall be paid overtime and be given blessings. If I am more than two hours late, it is likely that I am dead, in which case you shall be called to extend your service indefinitely, a contingency for which arrangements have already been made. That should cover it. You have my cell.