Dear Santa Claus
To whom it may concern
I think you know why I’m writing. It’s that time of year again, and although you didn’t exactly come through for me last year, I decided to give this another shot. I think we both know that when I asked for a new male companion to come into my life, I wasn’t asking for the male that appeared, the wild-eyed, hobo tomcat that bears a striking resemblance to Wilford Brimley.
I threw Cheetos at him, but he just ate them while staring at me smugly (which didn’t help dissuade my Brimley theory), so I named him Doodle and let him stay. Doodle wanted in and out of the house so much that I decided it would be best if I installed one of those cat doors that fit in a window. Unfortunately, he lost his cat door/window privileges when there were a number of incidents such as the night I woke to find Doodle gingerly placing a deceased gopher across my forehead.
Another night, I swear to baby Jesus, I woke when I felt a paw on my face, and opened my eyes to see three pairs of beady soulless eyes staring at me from the pillow next to mine. Doodle and two stray cats were sitting there, watching me sleep. He must have called some sort of hobo cat convention on my bed. I can only assume the topic of discussion was my inevitable murder.
I’ve since boarded up the window, and although I keep my bedroom door shut, somehow Doodle keeps sneaking into my room and pooping under my bed. (I think he may have figured out the a/c ducts in my house).
So Santa baby, this year, I’d like you to try again. No dirty tricks this time.
You’re the goddamn worst,
Help me out. You seem like a pretty reasonable guy, despite the questionable fashion choices. I’m sure you know that I’ve been nice. I work hard at two jobs, keep up my friendships, and parent my kids within the basic guidelines of the legal system. I reek of nice.
The problem is that I turned 50 this year. Freakin’ 50! Now, from what I understand, time doesn’t march on for you like it does for the rest of us. You’ve been rocking this sleigh gig for centuries, right? That’s why you are in a unique position to grant my Christmas wish.
I want the 80s back. Yes, the 1980s. Do you wonder why I would care to revisit a decade in which I earned minimum wage ($3.35 an hour!) and considered Bud Light to be real beer? Let me put this in terms you’ll understand: I’m ready to Dash and Dance and Prance and get Blitzed like the Vixen I used to be.
Santa, I’m over being nice. Get me back to naughty. Get me back to a time when everything I ate, drank, and wore was highly flammable and possibly carcinogenic. When guys my age still had hair, and it was bigger than mine. When what happened in the dorm bathroom, stayed in the dorm bathroom, not on Facebook/Twitter/Tumblr/G+. Just get me back to the 80s.
Oh, and rethink the red velvet, mmk? Cheers!
Co-Owner and Soupinatrix at Cycle City Soup Company
I know everyone writes you with wishes for sugar plums and train sets; big TV’s and sexy sweaters, but I’m writing to complain. Don’t get me wrong Mr. S I have wishes, lots of them. I also want it noted for the record that I have been a very good girl in 2012 (on account of how the world is supposed to end. Turns out that may not be happening). Still, I have issues with how you’re running your “charitable” organization. First of all I think many parents and grown ups in general are pretty peeved that you’ve spawned an age of consumerism unmatched historically, and we’re paying for it. Say, when was the last time you paid taxes? Nearly half of us are living on strained budgets and kids these days want it all. Secondly, you’re running your “toyshop” like a sweatshop. For crying out loud, drug testing the elves for marijuana is inhibiting their artistic talents. I think I see unionization in the near future. And I think we both can agree that the level of craftsmanship isn’t what it used to be. Thirdly, when are you going to deliver on world peace? You and I both know that it’s the one thing people wish for the most and yet …we wait, and wait. You’ve clearly been distributing toys unfairly and the kids in Syria have resorted to using their parents toys to “file complaints” with and that’s not going well at all. Mr. S I’m starting to think you may not be able to keep up in your old age. I think your charitable idea of “gifts for the needy kids” all those centuries ago got you in over your head. So that’s pretty much it. All in all I think the premise of what you planned and what’s presently (no pun) happening couldn’t be any farther apart. We’ve got greedy kids and broke parents and you’re in an unmanageable failing charity that can only hope for a government bail out. I want you to turn the train off the tracks and get us a new tradition – one that everyone can believe in.
Little Laura Hanes
On behalf of those that (still) believe you exist, I’d like to address a growing problem…your weight. I worry that the next time you feel a tingling in your toes or fingertips, it won’t be the gently playful nipping of Jack Frost, but rather the aggressively dreadful chomping of Jack Diabetes. I understand that the stresses of your job can lead to overeating, but the next time you come down that chimney and see a plate of cookies waiting for you, just walk past it and head for the fridge. A person on your list probably wouldn’t mind some missing fruit or vegetables if they knew it meant a healthier Santa.
You should also exercise more. Take the reindeer for frequent walks or have your elves build you a treadmill. Have the next present you get for Mrs. Claus be a slimmer and more confident Santa. And if Mrs. Claus is giving you grief, remember, people trust you enough to let you into their homes. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you grabbed a magazine and relieved some of that stress in their bathroom. Just clean up afterwards, and don’t do it in mine. I have enough trouble being a thirty year old who still believes in Santa.
If none of that works, you could always just go on The Biggest Loser. Whatever you choose, just know that there are still people who believe in you. I believe in you. Please bring me a PS3.
First off, thanks. It’s been a pretty kick-ass year. Even though you didn’t give me the
number one thing on last year’s Christmas list. As I’m sure you remember I asked
for a date with Brian Wilson (the San Francisco Giant not the Beach Boy). However,
you did manage to land them another World Series. I’m pretty sure that’s all on you
big guy. So, thanks for that.
Secondly, I’d like to address this issue of being “naughty or nice.” I feel like we both
know that this concept of “nice” is a very relative term. I’d like to think that I’ve
behaved significantly better this year as a 28-year-old woman, then let’s say, as my
23-year-old-self. I will admit that there were several times this year I could have
taken the high road – and didn’t. Also, several times I did mildly illegal things. And,
on an occasion, or two I might have turned into my infamous alter ego: Bad-Decision
Barbie. However, I think if you will critically review your records you will find that
my overall contributions to society vastly outweigh a few minor indiscretions to
the “naughty list.”
Lastly, my demands for this year are as follows. Excuse me sir, I meant wishes. I
– a bottle of Jameson that wouldn’t give me a hangover
– for fitness to be fun
– for my life to transition from the crappy part in the middle of the romantic
comedy to the part where I live happily ever after with the man of my dreams
It feels silly writing you at such an old age, but this Christmas falls upon hard times and I feel you are my only hope (not even Obi Wan can help me). This year I really want a Christmas miracle, I want my Dad’s leg to grow back. He lost it a few weeks ago to diabetes but would love to have it back. If he could walk again we could stroll down memory lane reminiscing about playing ball and going fishing when I was a youngster. Just going on a walk with my Dad would mean the world to both him and I and would give him the inspiration to live another 20 years. It would be better than any toy, book or pair of socks would, it would be way better than a lump of coal, but I am sure I wouldn’t get that this year.
In addition having his leg back would bring joy to my entire family, which actually even means more to me. He could walk and play with his granddaughters, and go on a romantic moonlight walk with his wife of 50 years. I guess you don’t have to make it grow back; your elves could make him a new leg. They could make it out of bouncy balls so he would be faster than ever and could slam dunk a basketball. He would never admit it but I bet he has always wanted to do that.
Former Owner of Bustolini’s and Impending Ex-Pat
We’ve gotta do something about this serpent bird thing. If this Mayan dickhole annihilates Earth then there’s no fucking Christmas. Now we’ve been doing the Good Santa/Bad Santa thing since the Alpine folk started talking to Jesus. You with the nice shiny sleigh with the bells and the reindeer and the presents for all the good boys and girls; Me, the Krampus, with my rusty chains, and hooves, and my annual feast of all the bad children in the Alpine countries. We make a great team! You spread the cheer, I spread the fear. But if we don’t use your elf slaves to manufacture a decent anti-Quetzalcoatl laser device then we are up shit creek sans paddle. I ran out of kids to eat like a month and a half ago and I’m fiending devilishly. I know you think this is some sort of Y2K bullshit AND you check Neil Degrasse-Tyson’s twitter like 20 times a day. But I’ve heard from Vishnu and my cousin Cadejo that this is no hoax.
Look Santa, at the end of the year you gotta empty your bag, and I gotta fill mine. So throw back a couple flagons of eggnog, have a chat with the Coca-Cola Polar bears, and get back to me. Don’t call me on my cell; reception is shit at the Matterhorn’s Peak. Just Facebook message me and I’ll check it when I go to Berlin on the 10th, Kraftwerk is playing “Autobahn” in its entirety. We have very little time!
The Krampus, Santa’s Evil Twin