An Open Letter from Santa


I’m canceling Christmas.  I know, I know, I’ve said it before, but this time, Santa is serious. This Jolly Old Elf has had it. Had it with the Season, with commercialism, had it up to the tippy top of my balding head with those damn elves, had it years ago with Mrs. Claus and in particular and most of all, had it with you. I think I might be able to squeeze one last Christmas Eve run past the rest of it, but you, my little friends, are the straw that broke this fat old camel’s back. You, the Children of the world, and most especially of all, you, David Jenkins of Piedmont, Ohio. If I hollowed out the entire State of Pennsylvania it wouldn’t give me enough coal for your stocking, you awful, awful little child.

Don’t go looking for any last minute, eleventh hour, John Denver and the Muppets Christmas Special change of heart, either. Oh, does that reference date Santa? Well I guess I’m just about as sorry as hell.  Rudolph is not going to pull your chestnuts out of the fire this time because A.) I’m not canceling due to inclement weather and B.) He’s dead. Bizarre mutations like glowing red noses usually go hand in glove with a heaping Christmas Helping of serious internal disorders, which Rudolph had more of than all the all the hideously over bred dogs at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show combined!

Santa’s old, old as hell and more than a little bitter. The truth is Santa stopped caring years ago. How often have I hinted I wanted out? But oh, no, you kept dragging me back in. Traipsing up to the North Pole in your “Children of many Lands” ethnic costumes, Like the robot cast of the “It’s a Small World” cast had thrown off their shackles and staged a walk out, sending me sad little letters in crayon, singing ‘Blue Christmas’ for Christ’s sake! How much emotional blackmail is one man supposed to take? Well, enough. I’m out. If Herbie can be a damn dentist, Santa can sure as hell be retired. And this is not a ‘symptom’ of Santa’s ‘bipolar disorder’! Damn quack doctors have a ‘diagnosis’ for everything these days and OH what a COINCIDENCE, for everything a fella does that rocks the boat there’s a MAGIC PILL! Magic, sure, it magically makes Mountains of Money for Big Pharma! Well, screw that noise! If Santa’s Doctors are such big geniuses, let them explain how it is Santa stopped taking his pills months ago and HE IS STILL FINE!!

Oh, Manic? Want to talk about manic? How about flying to every house on the planet in ONE NIGHT?! Because that’s what you want me to keep doing. You know what Santa thinks were in those damn yellow pills Mrs. Claus was constantly pushing down his throat? Crack! If you can find someone who can wiggle down six Billion Chimneys in one night without Crack, strap the Red Suit on them, ’cause I am taking it off. And if you all don’t mind a little tough love, let me just add, you don’t deserve me and you haven’t for quite some time. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, I keep the damn list! I know what you did. Lying, cursing, backstabbing, shoplifting, dope smoking, venomous little creeps! Okay, okay, a few of you are on the Nice list, but for every Amanda Cooper of Salt Lake City, Utah, there are six murderers! That’s right, real, actual kids who killed somebody! And I’m not even talking about the ones where there’s evidence that will stand up in court! The law will take care of them; I’m talking about the kids who got away with it! And you know why Amanda Cooper of Salt Lake City is so damn nice? She LACKS IMAGINATION! I’m sorry as hell but it’s true! That kid is as dumb as a candy cane!

I know you’re all upset, and I blame myself. It’s my fault you expect a full stocking and presents from me, I’m the single most codependent person on the planet. How’s THAT for a diagnosis? Are all you damn Doctors happy now? I never should have gotten into this racket in the first place, it’s Jesus’ birthday, not any of you kids, and he’s been dead more than Two Thousand Years. All the goodie bags and balloons from that party are long gone.

In conclusion, don’t cry, don’t pout. You’re still going to get a steaming mound of consumer crap far beyond the dreams of Avarice, because your parents feel guilty about the job they’re doing raising you AS WELL THEY SHOULD. They’ll probably mark some of them as being from Santa. Let ’em. Forging my signature is very low on my list of indignities. Frankly, being told I ‘shake like a bowl full of jelly’ bothers me a lot more. Newsflash! Fat guys know they are fat. I may have been ‘shaking’ on the outside, but on the inside? Tears of a Clown, boys and girls. Tears of a sad, fat, old Christmas Clown.

And you know what? I don’t blame myself. I blame you, you selfish, greedy little sons of bitches. And Jesus wept, Marty Oglethorpe, if you can’t leave it alone, at least stop touching it with THAT! Show a little self-respect.