Dear Santa--
You did fairly well this year as far as my family is concerned. Zoey loves her digital camera and Zed all but sleeps with his dinosaurs.
But…
Look, I know you have a tough job. It's got to be rough gig delivering presents to a billion or so kids in one night. And I realize that in your rush to get home before sunup, a mistake or two might happen. Little Bobby, who wanted nothing but Star Wars crap, might have accidentally received a Strawberry Shortcake figure. Shit happens.
But my son did not ask for croup for Christmas.
I know he's not talking yet. And while I have no real idea of what noises he may have uttered when he sat on your lap while trying unsuccessfully to hold back his tears, I'm pretty sure he didn't ask for croup.
So in the future, even if my children tell you otherwise, we do not want any illnesses, broken bones, or any other maladies for Christmas.
Hugs & Kisses,
Chag
P.S. What's up with all the aliases? Here in America, you go by five different names: Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas, Saint Nick, Father Christmas, and Kris Kringle. A quick look at your Wikipedia page shows many, many other monikers. What gives?
Multiple personalities?
Too many baby mamas running around the world? Been dropping something besides toys down a few chimneys?
Have the elves been using lead paint?
Have you replaced your elves with illegal immigrants or child laborers?
Tax evasion?
It's time to come clean. What are you running from, dude?
Song of the day: Do Ya by Electric Light Orchestra
An Open Letter To That Fat Bastard In The Red Suit
