Dear Santa,

Man, I’ve been pretty good this year. Like, really good actually. Even better than last year. And last year was a good one, too. I think I deserve a decent present this year.

Look, I’m not trying to be ungrateful here, but you’ve really shit the bed the last few years on my presents. Last year you gave me a book. A book, Santa. Seriously? You can do better than that. Did I do something to piss you off?

Like, I thought you’re supposed to have a line on everybody and know what they’re into and all that. I don’t read. When have you ever seen me read a book? I barely know how to read. It’s all I can do to even write you this letter.

Get your shit together, old man. Maybe stop thinking about cookies for two seconds and do your damn job. My taxes pay your salary, buddy.

Hey, I’m a pretty reasonable guy. I’d like to believe it was just a mix up. A bureaucratic slip. I get it. The holidays are a busy time, things are stressful, mistakes are made. But it’s happened for a number of years now, and I’m beginning to think you’ve got some sort of problem with me.

I don’t want to cause any trouble, Claus, but if you’ve got something to say to me, just come out and say it. Don’t give me this passive-aggressive bullshit year after year.

I know you’ve seen how good I’ve been this year. So you’d better check that list one more time, you fat bearded bastard. I haven’t missed one of my anger management courses. I’ve quit drinking except for weekends, Thursdays, holidays, and Tuesdays because I bowl on Tuesdays and you know I can’t bowl good if I’m not drinking. I finished all of my community service. I’ve been a regular fucking saint this year, and I think I deserve a little recognition of that!

Is a big screen TV and an Xbox One so much to ask from you? You owe me, you jolly elf son of a bitch. All I asked for two years ago was a new set of golf clubs and some lottery tickets. What did you bring me? Yeah, you know what you brought me, and it sure as hell wasn’t a new set of golf clubs and some lottery tickets.

You come into my house, eat the cookies that I leave out for you, and you basically take a big shit on me. This isn’t how a man acts, Santa. This is how a goddamned child acts.

Now, I don’t want to overreact here or nothing, and I’m not making any threats, but let’s just say I know some people. Some people who, from time to time, are involved in some little accidents. Accidents where some people might get hurt real bad. Hey, the last thing I want to see is you getting hurt, Kringle, but these people, sometimes I mention something to them and they go and do some things I can’t control. You ever had your kneecaps busted with a tire iron, Santa? I’m not saying anyone’s getting their kneecaps busted with a tire iron, it’s just an innocent question. Something to think about.

Look, we’re both hard working guys just trying to do our jobs the best we can and get by. We’re not that different, you and me. I’m in construction, you’re some kind of weird fuckin’ goblin who breaks into people’s houses and leaves them with some stuff they wanted. Hey, we’re both in the business of helping people out. And I know you’re a smart man who’ll do what it takes to make things right here. Because it’s in both our interests.

You try spreading any more of this “I don’t exist” crap again, then we have a real problem. You think I’m an idiot, Santa? You think you can just pull one over on me like that and I’ll forget all about this? Yeah, you try that shit again with me and you really won’t exist.

Just think a while on all this, Nick or Pere Noel or whatever your real name is, and I know you’ll make the right move. And while you’re at it, tell me how to get in touch with your pal Jesus there. I got a few things to say to that bastard, too.


Photo by DaylandS via Flickr