Letters to Santa

Claus,

Soooooo… I guess you didn’t get my letter last year, which would help explain some current events. I really didn’t think I’d need your help on this one, but you really let me down. So, I’m gonna need you to make a little unplanned, extra trip this year. Anytime after Jan. 20 is fine. Anyway, I hear you’ve had to lay off a lot of your elves, so I know you have some extra space in your compound. That said, I need some North Pole-style extraordinary rendition to be visited upon the following people: Speaker Nancy Pelosi, Senate President Pro-tem Robert Byrd, VP-elect Joe Biden and, finally, Barack Obama (the last two might be a little more difficult. You might want to see if the reindeer can go stealth on that one). Finally, I’m going to need you to keep them working in one of your slave-labor toy-making camps for at least eight years. If not, you can bet your fat-ass that my first “diplomatic mission” will be to the North Pole, and let me just say, it won’t be a pleasant visit. This, or you better have some serious naughty lists ready for me by 2016.

Sincerely,
Secretary of State-to-be (uggh!),
Hillary Clinton

Yo Santa,

It’s me! The Horatio Alger / Mother Teresa/ Gandhi and all-around pack leader of the new San Diego City Council. Yeah, I know, we picked that other guy to be the actual council president, but, hey, I got my two bits in! (Coin flip! Two bits! Get it? I’m… just… so… funny….) Anyway, you got my press release (No. 1,679, for your records) about how I’m not accepting gifts. None. Not a tinkly strand of tinsel, not a drop of eggnog. Send me anything, and it gets shipped right back to your cold-ass workshop, ya got it? Now, seeing that I sign off all my correspondences with “In Service,” I figured I’d offer you a gift this year. How about I business-process-reengineer Santa’s Village? I’m sure you’ve got some fat (sorry, bad pun) up there at the North Pole. I penciled this out over my 30th cup of coffee today, and I’ve determined you could operate with fewer elves if some were just taller. Again, these are ideas off the top of my head. I’m not married to any of them. I’m a compromiser, that’s what I am. Easy to get along with. Really. Just ask that other guy who got to be council prez.

In Service,
Carl DeMaio

Dearest Santa,

It has come to our attention that once again, you plan to stick to your cruel custom of flying around the globe in your fur-trimmed suit led by a troupe of unsuspecting reindeer. In case you don’t know, reindeer are just as intelligent as bats or narwhals—not to mention that your obesity must prove to be extremely strenuous on them, to say the least. We find your practices barbaric and inhumane, and that is why we have come up with the “I’d rather be naked than get gifts” campaign. So far, we’ve secured A-list celebrities such as Carrot Top, Brooke Hogan, Mike Aguirre and Pumpkin from VH1’s I Love Money to appear in the ads. If this isn’t enough to make you cease and desist, know that we have a plethora of volunteers across the land armed with T-shirt-launching bazookas altered to throw sacks of flour your way. It didn’t work on Lindsay Lohan, but we figure it will on you since you won’t confuse it with blow.

Kind regards,
PETA

P.S: Are your elves free-range?

Dear (Mr./Ms.) Santa:

San Diego Gas & Electric is committed to fostering positive relationships with our customers / vendors / neighbors. However, our records show that for several years, every Dec. 24, your firm, Santa’s Workshop, has flown a non-FAA-approved aircraft within 200 feet of our transmission lines.

Please be advised that under Article 2003.9, Sec. C of CPUC regulatory guidelines, such flights are prohibited under law. Please be further advised that all subsequent flights by Santa’s Workshop within 200 feet of SDG&E transmission lines will be shot down.

Further, our Legal Department asks that the following gift request be submitted to you at this time: No More Lawsuits. This letter serves as formal notice of said request, effective upon date of receipt.

Thank you for your attention to this matter,
San Diego Gas & Electric

Dear Santa,
I know I usually just ask for hair extensions and blow for Christmas, but I need something bigger this time around. You know how I put out Chinese Democracy this year, right? Well, this asshole Dr. Pepper promised to give everyone in the country a free can of his soda if I released an album, and that son of a bitch didn’t come through on his promise. OK, so the album’s a little tossed-off, but I’ve been busy organizing fingernail clippings and jars of urine for the last 14 years, so where would I find the time to record music? A man is nothing if not sterile! But I’ll be damned if I pass up 23 different flavors of deliciousness, so I called up my L.A. musician buddies to solo over the factory presets on my Pro Tools setup. We even convinced some people that it’s a real album! I have my lawyers building a case against him, but it’s taking forever, and I’m getting impatient. I know it’s hard to hold a rifle in the cold December rain, but do you think you can put a hit out on him and just get it over with? All I ask is that I get to scream “Welcome to the jungle, baby! You’re gonna diiiiieeeee!” in his face right before you pull the trigger.

Salutations,
Axl Rose

Dear Santa,

I’ve got some serious cleaning to do and the White House maids aren’t really up to the task. So I need the following things ASAP:

• 200-300 industrial-strength paper shredders

• 200-300 people who are legally blind (to load paper shredders without seeing what they’re shredding)

• A place in the North Pole to store a few detainees (more like a couple thousand or so—anything available?)

• Oliver Stone’s home number and address

• I know I’ve been asking for years, and you’ve always told me that if I was a good boy and still wanted it the next year that you’d get it for me—so, really, can you finally let me know where Bin Laden is?

• I’ve got about a month left, so I think that a peaceful Iraq and Afghanistan, a strong economy, better schools, strong international relations, fiscal responsibility, Social Security reform, immigration reform, energy independence, national security, the dissolution of Al-Qaeda and all the other things I’ve promised the last eight years still seem doable, don’cha think?

• All this, or a really great lawyer.

• A shot of Jack and Lone Star beer (fuck it, I’m leaving).

Thanks, good buddy,
W.

Dear Santa,

Since the election, I’ve met with dozens of the nation’s best and brightest economists, business leaders and elected officials to try to gauge the extent and severity of our nation’s economic problems. I have plumbed the depths of the financial crisis, and I can tell you that the waters are very deep. Consequently, I write this letter to ask you for a single, critically important gift on Christmas Day: Change the result of the Nov. 4 presidential election. I do not make this request lightly. It comes after much discussion and careful consideration. But if you think I’m going to take responsibility for digging us out of the hole we’re in, you’ve been smoking something.

Look, this isn’t about not having what it takes to be president. I’m ready to be a national leader. But America doesn’t need a leader right now. You all need a bankruptcy lawyer. There’s no way I’m spending the next four years staring at the kinds of numbers I’ve been staring at for the past few weeks. That shit’s crazy-making. And this isn’t about lacking courage, either. I knew when I ran for office there was always a chance someone might try to shoot me in the head. I just don’t want to wind up being the one pulling the trigger. So, please, change the results of the election and pass this cup to Sen. McCain. The guy’s old and has cancer—it’s not like he’s got his whole life ahead of him. Me, I’m out of here.

I wish you the best of luck in this endeavor. And God bless the United States of America.

President-elect Barack Obama


To: President of The Democratic Republic of the North Pole and the General Assembly of Elves, Polar Bears, Snow Fairies, Flying Reindeer and Gingerbread Men
Re: Procurement of Christmas Presents

We need $34 billion in small, unmarked, non-sequential bills. No questions asked.

Sincerely,
Ford, Chrysler, GM

Santa,

Actually, I think we’re good.

Yours,
AIG, Citigroup, Bear Stearns

Santa Claus,

I have one simple request. Get. Me. Outta. Here. This guy is freaking crazy. Like, cookoo for Cocoa Puffs. You saw what he did to my buddies PCL and LCL. Trying to go all John Wayne and play with a broken knee. Dude has more balls than brains. Wait, I think I hear him coming.

Heyyyyyyyy, Shawne. How’s it going, buddy? What? No, I wasn’t talking to anybody. What letter? No, it’s not addressed to Coach Turner. It’s nothing, really. OK, we’ll catch you later!
Fuck, that was close. He’s been going schizoid in Scripps Ranch since he got injured, doing that “Lights Out” dance to celebrate everything—paying the water bill, tying his shoes, nuking a Hot Pocket, whatever. Morale here in the knee is at an all-time low. The scar tissue hasn’t showered for weeks. The tendons are starting to lose hope and I don’t know what to tell them. I’m scared. Put me in some 90-year-old bow-legged dwarf. Donate me to science. I don’t care. Just please help.

Sincerely,
Shawne Merriman’s
Anterior Cruciate Ligament

Dear Santa,

Thanks for reading my letter. I’ve been having a hard time lately, and it’s nice to know that at least one person cares. The problem is none of my friends will play with me anymore. They say it’s because I’ve been a big meanie who turned his back on them when he made some new friends. I suppose that’s true, except for the part about being big—I’m not big! I’m small and elf-like. If I had bigger ears, you’d think I was a mouse. Well, an elf-mouse.

It’s true that I was mean to my old friends—I just liked my new ones better. I guess it’s because my new friends were so big and strong, I just couldn’t believe they let me hang out with them. Plus, they treated me like I was big, too! They’d say, “Don’t hang out with those guys—they’re too small for you. Come play with us, big guy!” I liked that a lot. Then, all of a sudden, my old friends got big—even bigger than the new friends. And now they won’t play with me anymore, and it turns out my new friends never really liked me, and they won’t play with me, either. I feel so used.

So, for Christmas, Santa, would you please bring me a robot puppy, like the kind I saw on TV? That way, I’ll have someone to play with and won’t feel bad. Any kind would be OK, so long as it’s really small, so I could kick it around when I’m feeling bad about being small myself.

Faithfully yours (I promise),
Sen. Joe Lieberman

Mr. Claus,

Due to continued nonpayment on your delinquent home-loan account, you are hereby informed that foreclosure proceedings have been initiated for your residence at 1245 Candy Cane Lane. This includes, but is not limited to, structures labeled on the attached appraisal documents as “Home Residence,” “Santa’s Workshop,” “Reindeer Stable,” “Sleigh Garage” and “Elf Barracks.” The aforementioned properties are subject to immediate seizure. Please vacate the premises within 30 days or face eviction by the Northern Territories County Sheriff’s Department.

Happy holidays,
Countrywide Home Loans

St. Nick,

I need a gold smelter, heavy black gloves and some iron tongs. Had a bad weekend in Vegas.

Michael Phelps

Dear Santa,

The other day, my wife mentioned something about the rug looking a little worn. Can’t say I actually want new flooring for Christmas. I think the Poway—er, I mean Little Italy place looks fine. But I gotta do what the missus says. So, put me down for a new carpet. Some nice, neutral color.

City Attorney Jan Goldsmith

Santa,

Now that the ban on alcohol at the beaches has passed, do you think you could bring us a ban on alcohol in bars and nightclubs, too? We’ve noticed that when we go to nightclubs, people are drinking lots of alcohol and are getting drunk, and that creates an inhospitable environment for families. In fact, if you can believe this, you have to be at least 21 years old to get inside, which isn’t fair to children!

Families for Wanting Bars to be
More Family Oriented for Families

Santa,

Now that Guy and I have split up, I need some good reading material. Can you send me Kim Basinger’s bestseller, How to Make a Public Spectacle out of a Broken Marriage and Use Your Kids as Leverage Against Your Spouse? Also, will you tell me how pretty I am again? Also, when are we gonna hook up? I’m already bored with A-Rod and need another home to wreck. Yours will do.

XOXOXO,
Madonna

Dear Santa,

As neighbors, I’ll miss our dinners and talks over Congac by the fire. And I know as friends, I’ve never thought of phoning in one of those superfluous X-mas wish-lists, but as you know, times have changed. So, in remembrance of all those Senate bill earmarks I got for the North Pole and the off-holiday-season golf junkets you attended with me, I ask you rather humbly for the following items sent care of my law firm, Williams & Connolly: A shiv, a copy of The Shawshank Redemption, a pick ax, a couple shovels (one for me, one for my roommate Jim-Bob), some good running shoes and, finally, a bridge to anywhere.

Your friend,
Ted Stevens

Santa,

I know you don’t care about black people, but can you please send me some adhesive solvent? Somebody put superglue on my sunglasses and I can’t get them off, even during interviews. It’s really making me look like a self-absorbed, delusional asshole. I think T-Pain is playing a practical joke on me or something.

The voice of this generation of this
decade of this year of this moment,
Kanye “Big Baby” West

Dear Mr. Claus:

2008 has been a fruitful year indeed. So far, we have taken over neighborhood bars and acquired beloved community businesses left and right. We’re going for broke in ’09, and this is where you come in. We want the whole of 92101 and surrounding zip codes—extra points for cherished San Diego monuments.

All the best,
San Diego City College

Santa,

We need a new phone number. Miley’s dad keeps calling and calling and calling. He doesn’t say much—mostly just breathes heavy and whispers the lyrics to “Achy Breaky Heart”—but dude is still creeping us out.

The Jonas Brothers

Dear Santa,

Normally, we Cylons don’t believe in polytheistic entities such as yourself, but I’m making an exception this time. Here’s the deal: Ever since I was first programmed, I’ve always known that we “have a plan.” It’s hardwired in us that everything we’ve done, from destroying most of the human race in a nuclear apocalypse to chasing a ragtag band of survivors through space, is part of the plan. But recent events have badly shaken my faith in this so-called plan. To wit, we spent years following the Battlestar Galactica through space, and then it turned out that some of those humans were actually Cylons in disguise! And they held important command positions on the Galactica! What the hell kind of plan is that? How about instead of having us run around on some wild goose chase, we use our Cylon sleeper cells to reveal the humans’ location so we can blow them out of space?

So, Santa, here’s what I want for Christmas: Tell me the plan. I bet I can make some serious, time-saving improvements.

Thanks,
Number 6

’Sup homie?

Props for coming through on that Super Bowl touchdown I asked for last year. Can you send me a new pair of sweats? I spilled ketchup all over mine. Oh, and please make sure they have a strong drawstring. Here are some other things I could use: A bodyguard, a time machine, maybe one of those fly DeLorean joints and 10 rolls of gauze—don’t ask. Thanks, dawg.

Peace,
Plaxico Burress

Greetings Santa,

Wow, it’s quiet at the Madaffer house right now. It’s been two days since I practiced one of my famous rants in front of a mirror, and I’m feeing introspective. Did you know that without me, people would not be able to type “www.sandiego.gov” into their computers and link up with the city’s website? Yeah, before that, you had to type in www.i’mlookingforthatcityinsoutherncaliforniathatisntlosangeles.com—oh, those were the days!

Well, here’s what I need: All new computer equipment (can’t mooch off the city anymore), oh—and a job! Man, you don’t know how tough it is to get a job in this town. I had visions of being Redevelopment Czar, but frankly that sounded too leftist for my right-wing tastes. Then when I zigged left to nab the presidency of California League of Cities, I thought maybe this is where I belong. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe SANDAG Ambassador to Anything It Wants to Build. You’ll think of something. I’m counting on it.

Fly straight!
Jim Madaffer

Hi Santa,

Ooh Santa, what a wicked year I’ve had. It sucked worse than a Grateful Dead concert without LSD, worse than a mainframe anomaly in Stage 2 feedback mode, worse than gall-dern law school! I know I could still buy and sell you, but somehow I’m feeling a kindredness with your immensitude. I studied your business model the other day while I was waiting to hear back from the ex’s (well, soon-to-be) attorney, and I think me and my boys back in Texas can help streamline your protocols and whatjamacallits. We just need an infusion of cash to get the snowball rolling. Got a spare $100 million lying around, Santa? Can you use a Cy Young pitcher on the cheap? He’s a good ol’ boy, too, and he likes the cold! How about you just take part of the Padres? Remember, the guys are available anytime after October—usually sooner—for other jobs. And their spit freezes where you come from, making cleanup a snap! I’ll be in touch.

Temporarily bunkered,
John Moores

Hey Cuz,

Wanted to make sure you had my new mailing address. Yeah—can you believe it—I’m off to D.C.! No shit! Barack (he said I could call him that) called personally. He said, “Fairy, get out there and help me make some magic!” Oh, it was music to my pointy ears! Yeah, you’ve heard the rumblings that Obama is planning to unleash a deluge of dough on cities throughout the country for all kinds of infrastructure projects. Well, who better to dole out the dinero than yours truly, right?

Will I miss San Diego? In the winter, you’re frickin’-A right! (Blizzards wreak havoc on my wand.) But seriously, not really—I never really felt appreciated there, except by a few. I know when I’m not wanted—and Mayor Sanders says he hates me. Guess we’ll see how his support of John McCain for president will play out now, eh? Oh, sweet, sweet karma!

In the meantime, if you could spare any of your big bags, I could sure use some for all the money I’ll be toting around. Oh, sorry to gloat—I know how shaky the retail biz is right now.

Best to the Mrs.!
Magic Budget Fairy

Dear Santa,

Confession: I’m not a human child. But please hear me out. I know you’re a big guy, so how about a big Christmas favor for a really big girl? Here’s my worry: Scientists at Pennsylvania State University reported last month that they’re close to mapping the entire genome of the woolly mammoth and that it won’t be long before they’ll be able to regenerate my extinct prehistoric ancestor. And how do you think they’ll do it? You guessed it: modify the genes of an elephant cell, convert it into an embryo and implant it in a female elephant. You just know that by the time they’ve got the $10 million together to do this, they’re gonna pick me! And thanks but no thanks—I’m not giving birth to a freaking woolly mammoth! So, for Christmas, I’m asking you to land your sleigh in my enclosure and take my uterus.  You can re-gift it to a bad kid or something; just get it out of me! I’d rather give up the future joy of passing a 300-pound elephant through my hoo-ha than have some kind of circus freak for a baby.  

Look at it this way, Santa: The new technology that allows them to do this could very well next be used to regenerate a prehistoric human embryo. Do you want your daughter, Tiffany Claus, knocked up with a Neanderthal fetus? I thought not.

So please, Santa, come take my junk before the scientists stick a dinosaur in it. I’ll leave some elephant cookies out for you.

Angeline the Elephant,
Pittsburgh Zoo

Dear St. Nick:

Gee, for starters I’d like to thank you for the copy of 104 New Ways to Cook Moose! you delivered to me last year—I was only familiar with 92. Todd and the kids love the recipes. I must say that elk empanadas surpass their caribou counterparts by far! On an unrelated note, I’d like to offer my services to ya, Santa. You see, I did wonders for the image of another older man and, gosh darnet, I’d like to do the same for you. Just for the record, I don’t mind the farting or tha yellow nose hairs, the never-ending bootlegging stories or the constant “$3.99 for a gallon of milk? In my day, blah, blah, blah….” Just think about it, Claus / Palin sounds like a winning ticket to me, Juneau what I mean? (Sorry there, Nick, that’s a local joke). If not, just throw a couple of bitchy power suits my way, an official Red Ryder carbine action 200-shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock—and smallpox for Tina Fey. Gift, baby, gift!
I heard that you can see Russian nesting dolls from your toyshop door. Is this true?

XOXO,
Sarah Palin

Santa,

How’s about a nice wine spritzer? Beer makes me bloat.

Joe Sixpack