Dear Santa,
I hope you’re not upset with me for not praying to you in awhile… I know you are always watching and you- wait a minute… That’s not Santa, that’s God.
Let me start over….
Dear Santa,
I like your beard.
Love,
Ke$ha.
… Wait…
Let’s try this again.
Dear Santa,
I’ve been pretty naughty this year.
That sounded really sexual… but I’m going to blame you for that one, because you’re the one with the Naughty or Nice List. You could have gone with a name that has fewer “Spank me, I’ve been naughty” implications, but hey, whatever floats your sleigh. (See what I did there? I know how much you like your sleigh jokes.)
I figure taking ownership of my “naughty” status should get me some extra points/presents. At least if I don’t parade around being all “I’ve been so good this year, Santa! I haven’t even said the word Fuck once!” you’d see right through me and our relationship would be tarnished. I accept my place as a naughty bandit, and take my spot next to the other wrongdoers with pride. Come to think of it, the members of your Naughty List could probably throw a pretty kickass party… so feel free to pass that list over when you drop off all of my goodies. And goddammit there will be goodies! Don’t even think of leaving me a lump of coal… unless it’s a bag of coal… because I have a charcoal barbecue and carrying bags of that shit home on the subway is a royal pain in the ass, so that’d be helpful. However, don’t ONLY leave me a bag of charcoal, cuz that’s only like $12, and I think you can do better than that.
I know I’m supposed to write you a list of things I want for Christmas, but that seems kind of silly since you spend all of your time watching everything I’m doing. (Speaking of which, I’m sorry about that thing you saw the other night. It was awkward for both of us… and I hope we can move on.)
I’d like to think you can use the power of deduction to find my perfect gift(s). You should know me better than anyone, Santa, so I trust you to find me exactly what I’ve always wanted. Don’t go searching my internet browsing history either, because I’ve already cleared it.
This is a test. We’ve been in a relationship for over twenty years now, Santa, it’s time you bring it.
For years I’ve been hearing you aren’t real, and quite frankly, I’m tired of the “real or not real” debate. I hear that enough about tits. Please don’t be another sac of disappointment and silicone. I don’t need a new set of floating devices, I need a … Oh wait, I told you I’m not telling you what I need or want. You almost got me there again, old pal.
I’m counting on you this year. I know it was a fluke that year when I found all my presents in my dad’s workshop before Christmas. You must have been under the weather that year… and I get that. I get sick all the time in the winter. We’ve always been the same like that… but this year, it hasn’t been cold enough for you to get sick, so I expect a top performance.
I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I just wanted to send a Holla! your way to remind you to bring me many gifts, maybe a bag of coal, and whatever booze you’ve managed to snatch from the neighbours.
Love your #1 fan,
Xoxo
Britt
P.S. I was going to go visit one of your mall representatives, but the idea of sitting on a strange man’s lap while I told him what I wanted seemed a little bit too heterosexual and a lot too creepy. Maybe you should consider sending Mrs. Claus to do your bidding. Or a sexy elf.
Jussayin’.
