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Home / Articles / Arts / Letters to Santa /  Letters to Santa
. . . .
Wednesday, Dec 19, 2012

Letters to Santa

What Mitt Romney, David Petraeus and other celebrities want to see under the tree

By CityBeat Staff
santa1 Illustrations by Scrojo

Letters retrieved by Alex Zaragoza, Ryan Bradford, Dave Maass, Nathan Dinsdale, Peter Holslin, Kelly Davis, Jim Ruland and John R. Lamb.


Subject: DON’T LET OBAMA SURRENDER YULETIDE TO RADICAL MUSLIM CLERICS

Dear Nick,

Ninety-eight percent of American households will be jailed or worse for celebrating Christmas this year unless you fax every member of the U.S. Senate TODAY.

Barack HUSSEIN Obama plans to ram the “Law of the Sea Treaty” down the throats of the lame-duck Congress. This nefarious agreement would strip the U.S. of our rights to resources off of our coasts, including the floating ice mass known as the North Pole. Instead, presents—gifts American children earned by following the word of our Lord—will be handed over to the Islamist-sympathizers at the United Nations for redistribution to sworn enemies of Christ.

The treaty would also allow these same U.N. mullahs to enact global Sharia Law on all oceanrelated matters. Again, that would include any gift traffic in and out of the North Pole! If you don’t act now, American girls and boys will wake up Christmas morning to discover only hijabs and plastic scimitars under the tree. Families that disobey could find themselves locked up or crucified on a tree in front of the Muslim Brotherhood’s offices in Egypt.

Tell the U.S. Senate today not to let Barack HUSSEIN Obama surrender our national sovereignty. You can fax Senate Republicans for $69.95 or the entire Senate for $79.95. All major credit cards accepted.

In His name, Judge-elect Gary Kreep Executive Director Emeritus United States Justice Foundation

Hey Santa Girl,

Thanks for taking time out of your busy day to read my letter. I’ll give you a long foot rub as you re-read A Room of One’s Own while taking a hot bath. I promise to use your favorite cookie-scented massage oil. 

Santa Girl, I love that you don’t give in to society’s expectations of beauty. Your girth and wild facial hair keep me warm on the coldest of nights. While, to me, you’re the sexiest person alive, I don’t understand why I keep getting overlooked as the Sexiest Man Alive by People magazine. Are my abs not sculpted enough? Do I need to work on my smolder? I don’t understand!

So, Santa Girl, I ask that you rub some of your sexy onto me and get me that title. I deserve it. You know it. I know it. And every woman, gay man and man who can appreciate sexiness in another man, without it being gay, knows it.

Your boo, Ryan Gosling

Claus,

Give me a shot of Jameson with a Stella back, a Costco jar of ibuprofen, a seaweed wrap and some sort of hibernation capsule to chill out in for the next 36 months.

Hillary Clinton

Dear Santa,

Hi how are you I’m fine. Thanks. Also thanks for all my gold medals. They match my teeth now. Bling bling. Hahaha. I love swimming because of water and swimming fast but I’m not good at talking stuff. I saw these learning computers. One of them was cool. It pointed to a cow and you pull a string and it would say “The cow goes moo” which is cool because that’s how cows talk and I learned that. Can I get some of those learning computers so I can sound good and also like a cow? That would be awesome. Also, can you tell old women to stop touching me in my swimsuit area? It makes me feel funny.

Ryan Lochte

Dear Santa,

You may be wondering, What more could the “Most-loved entertainer on the planet” want? And, yes, I don’t require much. Hook me up with a menagerie of multicolored tuxedos and an ass to yell into and I’m good to go. I guess anyone could use a more sexy la— KILL ALL AMERICANS!

Oops. Damn autocorrect. Anyway, the only thing I want for Christmas this year is an actual pony. Yeah, yeah, everybody loves the invisible-horse dance, but can you imagine riding through the countryside, wind through your hair, KILL YANKEES TORTURE AMERICAN SOLDIERS MAKE WAY FOR GLOBAL DOMINATION ALL HAIL PSY #GANGNAMSTYLE 

Yeesh. Autocorrect again. My bad. So, yeah, a pony would be great. I would feed him haaaayyy (sexy lady) all day. Get it? KILL THEIR DAUGHERS, MOTHERS, DAUGHTERS AND FATHERS KILL THEM ALL SLOWLY AND PAINFULLY.

Well, shit.

Psy


Greetings Mr. Kringle,

It’s come to our attention that several urgent supply deliveries to your workshop have allegedly been disrupted allegedly due to malfunctions with our GPS app. Several UPS cargo planes have disappeared off the coast of Argentina, and an uncommon number of errant FedEx trucks have accumulated in St. John, N.D., and Christmas Valley, Ore. We vehemently deny any error on our part and refuse to offer a refund under any circumstances, but please accept a $3.87 credit to your iTunes account while we bide our time until the iPhone 6 is released.

Best, Apple Maps


Claus,

Ever since I left office, I can’t stop humming Simple Minds’ “Don’t You Forget About Me.” I thought about holding a press conference, just for fun, but press releases look so blah without the city seal at the top.

I’ve been watching Inception a lot (thanks for the DVD last year). I’d like one of those machines they use to get into people’s dreams, plus instructions to go three levels down into Bob Filner’s subconscious and implant the idea that in April 2014, he’s going to resign as mayor and attempt to kayak the Kinnickinnic river in Wisconsin. I know nothing about the Kinnickinnic, but it’ll be funny when he tries to pronounce it.

I’d also like a copy of Homebrewing for Dummies. “Prosperity Pilsner” is my Plan B.

In service, Carl DeMaio

Santa,

Can we get a mulligan on Prop. 8 already? Sure, we may back our way into a Supreme Court bailout, but even Minne-freaking-sota looks progressive in comparison right now. One word comes to mind when I think of a Pride parade in Duluth: “frostbite.”

Yours, California

Dear Honorable Mr. Santa Claus,

My friend, it has been too long! We have grown older, and hopefully wiser, since our first fateful encounter at the 1986 World Human Resources Association Conference in Tampa. You pulled me aside at the continental breakfast and said, “Joseph, the question isn’t ‘How do I attract hard-working labor?’ It’s ‘How do I snatch them?’” So much I learned from your instruction!

You explained how you abducted elf-children from their tree nooks in the night, how through isolation in the Arctic wilderness you convinced them they were doing the Lord’s work. Give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. Teach him to brainwash a child soldier, you fuel his rebellion for decades.

It is with heavy heart and great anxiety that I write to you this day. Perhaps the “Kony 2012” posters have made it as far north as your workshop, but if these American interferers make good on their pledges, my days are numbered.

All I want for Christmas is asylum. OK, that and South Park Season 14 on Blu-ray and a fleet of Predators. Kony’s drones. I like the sound of that.

Your servant, Joseph Kony Lord’s Resistance Army

Dear Santa,

I’ve grown weary of Fernet, and there’s only so much you can do with rye whiskey. St. Germain? Yawn. I want to introduce the craft-cocktail world to something new. Last night, three ingredients came to me in a dream: Malibu Rum, Chalupa sauce and Ovaltine. But I have no clue what to do with them. A recipe or two would be great. Just nothing involving Aperol—it’s so November 2012.

Thanks, Frank Galliano, Mixologist

Señor Claus,

Help me salvage what’s left of my dignity and turn me into something respectable like glue or Alpo or the entrée at a Kazakhstani family’s Christmas dinner. It’s bad enough that I only have the third-best mane in the family.

Rafalca

Notice of potential litigation, Lynchester v. Santa’s Village LLC:

It doesn’t have to come to this, St. Nicholas. We bought a North County newspaper this year just to spy on you! We dug into your background. Says here you’re the patron saint for sailors, merchants, archers and thieves. Need I point out that I belong to a yacht club, sell myself like no other, skewer my foes with gusto and, well, let’s just say I bought the title “publisher” for chocolate chump change.

To our point. We at Lynchester Inc. LLC LLP blame you for the rotten year we’ve had. Bad press. Bad election picks. Bad fashion sense. We’d blame the current president— the worst of all time—but we’ve determined that you have deep, velvety pockets.

You will hereby rectify this situation by selling us your shares of Santa’s Village and all commensurate North Pole properties. Our intent is to redevelop the site into a premier winter resort, dba Lynchester Village, complete with ice hotels; hot, calendar-quality “room service”; and Rudolph’s, a four-star bistro featuring “specialty” meats. (Naturally, Lynchie prefers a sports complex, but I keep telling him the Chargers are a warm-weather team. What a kook!) 

Don’t make us come up there and commandeer Dancer and Vixen.

Douglas F. Manchester, John T. Lynch, U-T San Diego

Dear Mr. Santa Claus,

I refuse to propagate this chauvinist myth that only a man gets to decide what constitutes naughty and nice, that only little drummer boys can run pa pum pum, that jolly happy souls made of snow must be men even though they have no discernible genitalia. I reject your misogynist monopoly on gift-giving.

This holiday celebrates the labor of one person—a woman. Yet, today, the only woman in your operation is relegated to a role so subservient, she’s not even worthy of a first name. How dare you?

I will not sit on your lap and tell you that I’ve been a good little girl and what kind of dolly to bring me. I am the prime minister of bloody Australia, and I can choose my own present. All I want for Christmas is your chestnuts over an open fire.

Sincerely, Julia Gillard

 

 Santa,

I don’t know what happened. Back in my day, pop culture was so much simpler. Limp Bizkit did it for the “Nookie” and nothing more. The only thing Savage Garden felt “Truly Madly Deeply” about was chicacherry cola. Britney Spears was a nice little virgin with a full head of hair.

Now, boys are running around in girls’ jeans, girls are wearing flannel and everybody’s waving around those dang mp3 pods!

Back in October, they closed up the store for good and sent me packing. I feel like I’m no use anymore. My Sony Discman is broken, my extra-baggy JNCO jeans have a hole in the seat and somebody stole my wallet even though I had a wallet chain. Do you know if AOL is hiring? I’ve enclosed my résumé, just in case.

Best, Blake Evans Former assistant manager, Sam Goody, Horton Plaza


Dear Santa,

Please find my Christmas list attached.

• Cheerios
• Watermelon
• Silkworm pupae
• Klonopin
• A miniature, plastic Irwin Jacobs in an old-fashioned deep-sea-diver suit

Love, Balboa Park Koi Fish


Dear Mr. Claus,

Apologies for the mix-up last year—I thought it was a one-wish-list per household deal and, as you know, I’ve got a lot of houses!

So, let’s focus on my La Jolla pad this year, where I’m going to be spending a lot of time thanks to you-know-who.

Thank you again for the super-neato car elevator. I’m going ahead with the underwater submarine base and supersonic helijet I asked for last year—on my own dime.

I’d like to keep these modifications out of the public eye as I prepare for my next career move. Here’s where you come in. Whatever tech you’re using on your sleigh to keep its movements a secret, I’d like to install that at the La Jolla compound.

If that’s too much, ask yourself this: What would Christmas be like without the Mormon Tabernacle Choir?

Think long and hard, fatso.

Sincerely, Mitt Romney

Saint Nick,

Just tell Captain Magic Underpants that I have a trash-can-dwelling, pipe-wielding malcontent and a crazy-eyed dude all hopped up on baked goods staking out his pad in La Jolla ready to deliver the word of the day.

Big Bird

Dear Santa:

I’ve been a bad boy. I’ve let down President Obama, I’ve let down the country, and I’ve let down my wife, Holly (no more “enhanced interrogation” role-play scenarios in the bedroom for me anymore, that’s for sure). I’ve also let you down, Santa, and I’m sure you’re going to use a Predator drone to blast a flaming lump of coal up my ass this year.

But I have one thing to ask for, and it isn’t a bunch of 007 gadgets. This gift wouldn’t be for me—it’s for everyone, especially the veterans in America and the people of Afghanistan, who’ve suffered long enough from this terrible war. What I’m asking for, Santa, is a book deal. I want to set the record straight: I might not be able to keep my cruise missile in my pants, but I’m not such a bad guy. (Besides, these lawyer fees are killing me.)

Oh, and maybe send the troops home, too.

Remorsefully, David Petraeus

Mary “Mrs.” Claus,

Listen, bitch. I don’t know what kind of fruitcake game you think you’re playing, but I had better not see you flaunting your Silicone snowballs anywhere near my Davey or, so help me, I’ll stab you in the throat with a month-old candy cane.

You’ve been warned, Paula Broadwell

Dear Santa,

Normally, I wouldn’t write this letter because I find the concept of you laughable at best, but my m̶o̶m̶ girlfriend thinks I shouldn’t be so negative all the time. But if I must indulge her moronic request so she’ll get off my back about getting a job, then fine: I want a new set of cogs for Christmas.

Don’t expect me to explain our culture to a simpleton in a red suit. Let me just say that I will be seriously pissed if you give me a non-Victorian-era cog. When dealing with cogs, you get what you pay for. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a cheap knock-off get jammed with Dorito cheese or corroded from Monster energy drinks.

While we’re at it, I also want a t̶o̶p̶l̶e̶s̶s̶ signed picture of Lucy Lawless. And the Quantum Leap series. On Blu-ray. And friends. And [words smeared and illegible from what appears to be either sweat or tears].

Steampunk guy from Comic-Con

Hey Kringle,

I want to punch you in the face so bad right now. Meet me by the car elevator after yacht practice and I’ll have my man servant Frederick sock you right in your rosy cheeks with a roll of Spanish doubloons.

Tagg Romney

Hi Santa!

 This is Elmo! Elmo is your friend! Elmo loves bringing happiness and hugs to all the boys and the girls in the world. They are Elmo’s best friends! But Elmo’s best best friend, Mr. Kevin Clash, had to go away. My other friends on Sesame Street asked me if Kevin Clash ever touched Elmo. They held up Grover and asked Elmo to point to where Kevin Clash touched Elmo. I showed them where Kevin Clash puts his hand in Elmo and they all started screaming: “AHHHHHHH!” Now they don’t let Kevin Clash and Elmo play and be friends. Elmo just wants to make kids happy. Can Elmo still do that even if Kevin Clash has gone away? That’s what Elmo wants for Christmas.

I love you!

Elmo

Kris,

This movement has always belonged to you. Our ground game was the decisive factor in this campaign. It was you, KRIS, and your local NORTH POLE teams, canvasses, phone banks, ELF DRIVES and donations that helped change the face of American politics. But our work isn’t over. That’s why I’m asking you to contribute yet again. Today only, when you chip in $11 or more, we’ll send you a limitededition “Horses and Bayonets + Malarkey” Obama-Biden bumper sticker. Because you’ve saved your payment information, your donation will go through immediately.

Jim Messina Campaign Manager Obama for America

Santa Claus,

These binders full of women I heard about during the election, I would like one. It would make my work so much more organized.

Kind regards, The Hillside Strangler

Dear Santa,

Give me a gun. A nice Glock 19. Anything to put me out of my misery. I beg the staff here to just let me die, but my pleas fall on deaf ears: Kill me buzz buzz buzz kill me kill me buzz buzz buzzzz. My insides are rotten—ghosts of past meals haunt me from within. Forgotten deli sandwiches, doughnuts, diet sodas and vegetarian “meat” (I know, right?) have made me unfit to live in this world, yet everyone just pretends I’m not here.

I’m a ghost. It’s not suicide if I’m already dead inside.

CityBeat’s fridge




 
 
 
 
 
 
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