Yo, can it be that I haven’t written you a letter since what, 1977? I can’t believe my thoughtlessness and I feel bad about blowing you off, because I know damn well that I was on the naughty list from 1980 to 2010, yet you never put coal in my stocking. But this letter isn’t about us, Dude! Shit got real last week so I knew I had to shoot off a quick note, not just to thank you for being decent to me, but also to give you the 411 on the haps in my life and ask you for help.
Last week, I was walking the little one to school and she tells me that she’s asking YOU to bring her a puppy for Christmas and I was like – HELLA NO – but of course I didn’t say that. I didn’t want to smack talk you, Nick, but all I could think about was how furious I would be if you brought her a puppy. Pissed enough to bake up enough Ex-Lax in your cookies that you’d be shitting your snow pants so hard, you wouldn’t be able to get out of your sleigh for six weeks. But then I thought better of it because of the kids. The kids need you. They need to believe. But I’m telling you right fucking now, St. Nick, MY kid does not need a puppy and you had better not bring her one.
I’m not going to lie to you. I’ve been a bad girl again this year. Not terrible like how I was in 1987, 1990, 1997, or 2010, or naughty like in 1988 when I was ditching school, smoking weed and fornicating in cars with boys, but naughty enough that it feels wrong to ask you for a solid. But man, I’m desperate here, so all I’m asking is that you to hear me out.
Bring noisy, ugly gifts that need six million batteries a week. I’m good with that, but do not being anything alive into my house as a gift for either of my kids, man. Nothing. I can’t take care of one more damn thing, Santa! I can barely take care of myself some days. I know it’s your thing to make dreams come true for children around the world and being the good guy fulfills your narcissistic fantasies. When you brought me that fucking Doodle Art kit and new desk in 1978, I was like FUCK YEAH SANTA IS THE BOMB, so I know what it’s like to be drunk on the feeling of being loved.
I remember sitting up in my bed thinking that if I didn’t lie down, then I wouldn’t fall asleep and when you came down the chimney, I would hear you and we’d meet and I’d run into your arms and you would grab me in a bear hug and snuggle me against your soft furry coat. I wanted to kiss your warm, pink cheeks and thank you for being so good to me even if all my teachers wrote stuff like, “isn’t working up to her potential,” and “must learn to stay in her seat,” and “needs to stop talking to her neighbor during work time.” But now, today, if you came down the chimney with a kitten, puppy, hamster, gecko or a worm for fuck sake, I would not hesitate to chew your eyes out and stick the hot iron fire poker straight up your fat ass.
But it’s not because I don’t love you. I loved you then and I love you now, but Santa, things have changed. I’m the one who has your back! I’ve put you on a pedestal for years, because I know that your magic is one of the miracles of childhood for so many, but I shit you not big fella, if you bring anything alive to this house, there’s gonna be hell to pay.
You see, I have this huge network of bitches now who’ve got my back and we can unleash a world of hurt on your and yours. I know you and Mrs. Claus didn’t procreate and you don’t know what it’s like to be a parent (elves don’t count so don’t even go there) so I’m going to school you for a sec about how much work the parenthood gig really is. You have one tough night a year when some hyper-active, demanding kids are awake peppering you with questions or wiping their snot noses on your fur coat. We all know you aren’t sitting at the mall for hours on end listening to our ankle biters drone on and one about Legos and American Girl, you’ve got a million elves doing your work for slave wages and gingerbread. I can’t be hearing you whine, SC, I just can’t.
So listen good Fatty Claus, because if I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t bother taking the time to write you this letter giving you the heads up. I’d just let the wrath of angry moms lace your treats with pet poop for years to come and pee in your milk. The truth is that when you bring live animals to kids around the world, it’s the parents who end up caring for them – paying for all the supplies, vet visits and cleaning up all their shit nuggets. We don’t have an army of elves. Well, Michelle Duggar sort of does, but most of us are on our own. Don’t do it. Don’t. Do. Not. Do. It.
And so I conclude this letter by telling you about one really good thing I did this year and that good thing is something you should have done a long time ago. I don’t know if you are just senile or keeping it old school or what, but I really think you need to get with the times, maybe take a week out of the year to do a little fucking research about what’s going on in the real world with real families. I told my daughter that YOU always ask parents for permission to bring animals to their kids because YOU don’t want to put anyone out or place an animal in a home where it can’t be cared for properly so it ends up homeless or in a shelter. I told her that YOU, Santa, would never do something that thoughtless and ignorant because you love animals too much to put them at risk.
You have been warned. You have been schooled. You are welcome.
P.S. I almost forgot to tell you what I want for Christmas! Please bring me 365 bottles of cheap white wine, screw top please. I can’t promise I will be good next year, but I promise to try.
P.P.S. If this elf is still alive, kick him in the balls. I think he pinched me.