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Home / Articles / Arts / Letters to Santa /  Letters to Santa
. . . .
Tuesday, Dec 15, 2009

Letters to Santa

What's in St. Nick's mailbag?


As we’ve done for the past few years, we’ve intercepted correspondences from well-known locals and national celebrities bound for the North Pole. Our team of operatives includes Aaryn Belfer, Kelly Davis, Edwin Decker, Nathan Dinsdale, Enrique Limón and Dave Maass.


Dear Santa,

You’re going to think I’m such a hypocrite. Please don’t add me to your naughty list.

The last few months have been one long migraine. The crime lab ruined a couple months’ worth of toxicology results. We had to write up NINE (!) officer-involved-shootings. Then, of course, there was the medical cannabis dispensary fiasco. I can’t sleep, my appetite has flat-lined and I feel like someone nail-gunned me between the shoulder blades.

After the jury returned a not-guilty verdict in the pot shop case (they might as well have punched me in the neck), I called James Pitts into a private meeting. He was the deputy district attorney in my office whom the defense exposed as a pot patient. I asked him, point blank, whether the marijuana worked. We opened the window and—well, you have NO idea.

It’s like riding buck-naked and bareback on a breeze.

I took home an ounce from our evidence locker. The only downside is that I’ve been smoking it out of a primitive little tube I formed out of aluminum foil, which leaves my throat feeling like I knocked back a bottle of lye. I can’t very well walk into a head shop, you know, and buy a bong. I can only ask you, because only you are discreet.

Santa, please bring me a pipe. It should be crystalline glass, rose-tinted and formed in the shape of a gavel. I want to inhale from the handle end and burn the marijuana in the mallet head. When I set it down, it should look like the smoking hammer of justice. That’s what I want.

And Bob Marley’s Legend.

Yours nicely,

Bonnie Dumanis,
San Diego County District Attorney

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Hello Santa,

This is actually for Mrs. Claus. I need her to do me a huge favor. Can she please take her name off her voice mail? My wife went through my phone and may be calling her. Thanks, you’re a life saver!

Tiger Woods

--------------------------------------------------------------

Papa Noel,

I’d like the complete Samsonite “Silhouette 11” luggage collection, a copy of Fodor’s: Boston, Fodor’s: New York, Fodor’s: Chicago (actually, Fodor’s: USA will work), a subscription to Condé Nast Traveler, a toothbrush, the phone numbers to all U-Haul locations in the San Diego area and maybe some of those Southwest Airlines drink coupons.  

Gracias,
 
Adrian Gonzalez,
First Baseman,
San Diego Padres*
*As of 2:14 pm (PST), Dec. 16


--------------------------------------------------------------


Mr. Claus,

We’re writing to see……………….if you could use a couple pilots……………to help out on Christmas Eve……………we both have tons of flight experience…….....most recently with Northwest Airlines………and…………. we both have laptops if you need to………….Mapquest any houses………..wait, why the hell are we in Wisconsin?

Sincerely,

Capt. Timothy Cheney and First Officer Richard Cole

P.S. Does your sleigh get wi-fi?

--------------------------------------------------------------

Santa Akbar!

Thanks a million for the back-shaver last year! Mukasey wouldn’t let me have it, but Holder’s proven far more polite.

Speaking of which—guess what! Change of address! I’m back in New York City. They’ll probably execute me this time, but that’s the Big Apple for you.

For Christmas, please leave me a gift certificate to Junior’s on Flatbush in Brooklyn. They have the “most fabulous” cheesecake in the world.

Asalaam ’Alaykum,

Khalid Sheikh Mohammed

--------------------------------------------------------------

Hey Santa,

Um, Santa, any chance you can get me in good with the Chargers again. See, I want to play for a team that, you know, can win in this league, a team with receivers with a little freaking height, if you don’t mind, a team with a defense that doesn’t break for tea whenever an opponent marches into the red zone and an offensive line that doesn’t think “protecting the quarterback” means applying sun block to my naked back, chest and inner thighs when we’re hanging at the team pool (I think they’re queer is what I’m saying).

Look, I know San Diegans are still a little perturbed at me for the, um, well, let’s just call it The Debacle. But fans in San Diego ain’t nothing compared to New York fans. I can’t even order a slice of pizza in this town without some hyperthyroidal Guido fathead spitting in it. Not to mention, it’s fucking cold in this town. Get me out, Santa, get me the hell out!

Eli Manning

--------------------------------------------------------------

Greetings, Santa,

I require a dirigible that can truly carry me to the heavens—and possibly beyond. My parents, you see, are positively deranged, and I seek separation from them at the earliest opportunity.

Falcon Heene
(aka “Balloon Boy”)

--------------------------------------------------------------

Santa,

What’s up with not responding to my offer last year to business-process-reengineer your workshop? The city of San Diego isn’t the only bloated bureaucracy in the Northern Hemisphere, big guy. Just like the city, you’re letting your labor unions call the shots. It’s time to put a stop to the United Brotherhood of Elves and Reindeer, or else next year it’ll be ball-in-the-cup for all the good little boys and girls of the world.

1. Outsource the workshop. Right now, you employ 536 3-foot-tall elves. Replace them with 268 6-foot-tall humans.
2. Increase the reindeer’s retirement age by five years and cut their pension by half. Try explaining to little Jimmy and Jenny that there’s no Wii under the tree because Donder, Prancer and Cupid have an annual pension that’s 110 percent their yearly pay.
3. Lay off the cookies. You’ll shave 53 minutes off your route if you lose 20 pounds.

Oh, and please bring me a copy of the Reason Foundation’s Radicals for Capitalism: A Freewheeling History of the Modern American Libertarian Movement and a manicure set. Thanks.

In Service,

Carl DeMaio

--------------------------------------------------------------

Santa,

Surpriiise! Like muskrat fur on a snowmobile chain, I’m still around! It’s been quite the whirlwind year there, Nick, and I’m so grateful I could burst. Why, just the other day, a proud American flung some tomatoes at me at my Mall of America book signing—which, added to the heads of lettuce and piles of rutabaga and kale I’ve had tossed in my direction at other stops, has filled up the Palin household vegetable drawer. Heck, throw a baby elk and some cornbread mix my way, and our Christmas feast will be complete!

I’m tellin’ ya, people’s generosity, even in this gosh darn economy, never ceases to amaze me. Hopefully someone will think of Todd on the next stop and hurl a 12 pack of Natty Ice, or maybe something shiny to keep little Trig busy (just nothing with flashing lights—it spooks him).  

As for my stocking, fill ’er up with that magazine that Levi’s in, along with some Wesson oil and some defogger for my reading glasses. I’m tellin’ ya, I once heard him ’n’ Bristol getting busy in the storage shed, and it sounded like a wild moose sharpening its antlers on a Sitka Spruce. I betcha he’s so well hung, you can see his junk from Russia, wink wink. How does that saying go? Curiosity killed the cat? Oh no, wait, that was me. I shot him. I shot that cat dead.

Sincerely,

New York Times bestselling author (scary, huh?),
Sarah Palin

--------------------------------------------------------------

Hey Tubby:

I see you zipping around every Christmas—don’t think I don’t. You will give me what I want. If you don’t, I’ll shake my head just a little, and your pole will move to freaking  Nunavut.

You will deliver a Raytheon RIM-161 Standard Missile 3 and an Aerojet MK 72 solid-fuel rocket booster, the best anti-ballistic missile system in existence. I’d also accept a couple of those Chinese SC-19 ASAT missiles.

No one’s going to shoot a rocket up my ass again.

Thanks,

Man in the Moon

--------------------------------------------------------------

Father Time Christmas,

It’s nice to write a letter. People just don’t write letters anymore. When I was growing up, people wrote letters all the time. I blame the internets and the loud rap music and that hussy Katie Couric. Anyway, I’d like a large tube of Preparation H, one of those LifeAlert doohickies, some of that oatmeal Wilford Brimley is always going on about, a pack of Depends (for when the oatmeal aggravates my irritable bowels), the complete Matlock series on VHS and a warm glass of milk. It’s nice to write a letter. People just don’t write letters anymore. When I was growing up, people wrote letters all the time.

Cordially yours,

LaDainian Tomlinson

--------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Santa,

I know you’re all-inclusive and are known across America for your generosity to all. But—and I say this with all due respect—you’re doing a huge disservice to Christmas by stopping at the homes of non-believers.  

These bandwagoners are ruining it for the rest of us, Santa. I mean, winter solstice? What in the h-e-double-hockey sticks is that? You know the people I’m talking about: The ones who never go to church but clog up Mission Valley during shopping season, as if they have any right to participate in this holy holiday. (Don’t tell anyone, but I like to elbow in front of these heathens Target.)

Christmas without Jesus is ruining our children. Which is why I’m gathering signatures for “The Freedom to Present Christmas Music in Public School Classrooms or Assemblies” initiative. As a teabagger, I want government to get out of my business. Except for when it comes to Christmas. And abortions. And the gays. Oh, and the potholes on my street.

Then we need Uncle Sam to rule with an iron Christian Fist.

Please, won’t you sign my petition to keep Christ in Christmas?

Amen Praise the Lord Baby Jesus,

Merry Hyatt,
The Redding Tea Party Patriots

--------------------------------------------------------------

Santa baby,

As you know, I’ve been naughty this year. Oh so naughty. Yes, I’ve been a bad, bad boy. I probably need a spanking. Just shove a lump of coal in my mouth, stick a reindeer harness on me and whip me like my name is Toby.

That pretty much does it for my list. But if you could be a peach and send a ball gag, anal beads, a riding crop and one of those leather masks that submissives wear (you know, the little number with the zipper over the mouth?) over to the executives at ABC, you’d just be too cute for words.  

Kisses,

Adam Lambert

--------------------------------------------------------------

St. Nick,

Dakota Fanning or Abigail Breslin, whichever one is easier to get in the sack. By which I mean that large satchel where you keep all the presents. You see, I’m looking to shoot a home movie (working title: Swiss Miss) but my mobility is limited at the moment. I’ve had my assistant leave a trail of Lindt chocolates from the local playground to my chalet but the paparazzi keeps eating them.  

Yours,

Roman Polanski

--------------------------------------------------------------

Mr. Claus,

I have an exciting financial opportunity for you. What would you say if I could guarantee you 15 cartons of cigarettes, five liters of vintage penitentiary wine (aged six to eight months in my gym socks), a hardly-been-used shank handcrafted by my cellie Big Pete AND extra Jell-O in the mess hall—all for your measly investment of $50, a prepaid cell phone and a tube of Revlon lipstick (either “Hot Coral” or “Copperglaze Sienna”)?  I know, right? That sound you hear is opportunity knocking, my friend.

Confidently yours,

Bernie Madoff

--------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Claus:

Don’t ask me why voters love cookies. They just do. Lee Atwater once told me that it wasn’t Willie Horton who won George Sr. the election. It was Barbara’s snickerdoodles. Here’s what’s going to happen: Attached is a list of the San Diego winter homes of the GOP’s richest and most loyal. Each one will leave two plates of cookies on the mantle, one for you to eat there and then and one for you to stow in your sack. When you get to my house, you’ll just “regift” them. Got it?

Hush-hush,

Assemblymember Joel Anderson

--------------------------------------------------------------

S-Claus,

I have an image problem. I’m kicking serious ass this season, but everybody still just wants to talk about the other linebacker named “Shawne.” I need a signature injury (a knee would be nice but an ankle would do), some anger management issues, my own sack dance (“Phil-er-Up”? “Shaun of a New Era”? “Lights on”?), a bad haircut and a crazy ex-girlfriend / hooker / reality star (any of the Charm School or Flavor of Love chicks will do) that I can sue for copyright infringement (for those purposes, “Phil-er-Up” would probably work best).  

Thanks,

Shaun Phillips,
San Diego Chargers

--------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Santa:
Will you please just get my wife a goddamn Bluetooth?

Sincerely,

Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger

--------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Santa,

Will you please send me some gangsta lyrics? Ever since I beat the snot out of my girlfriend, Rihanna, I’ve been feeling like a hypocrite because I still write those sappy-ass lubby-dubby songs that I be known for. You know, the ones with lyrics like, “Oh Giiirl, you always bring the first day of spring,” and “Baby, let’s chase our love,” and my all-time favorite, “All I know is that you’re the cure cuz I been diagnosed with love.”

What I need now, Santa, are some real, women-hating gangsta snaps to go with my new image as a domestic abuser. You know, some of that, “Slappin’ da ho” and “Tappin’ dat ass” stuzz-nuff. Because every time I try, all I come up with is more of that lubby dubby crap. For instance, last night I was working on a song called, “Mad at You.” It goes:

“Giiiirl, I’m so mad at you / cuz you slept with all the niggas in my crew / Oh guh-url, you dissed me so bad / I’m gonna…
“I’m gonna…
“I’m gonna make sweeeet lo-oh-ove to you.”

See what I mean Santa? You gotta help!

Chris Brown

--------------------------------------------------------------

Santa,

P is for President Barack Hussein Obama.
R is for racist ACORN.
E is for end of the free market.
C is for czars and more czars and communism.
E is for ego the size of a bailout.
N is for 9/11 all over again.
T is for toovar dal. (I googled it and it’s some sort of lentil that Kenyans eat. We all know that lentils is what hippie liberals eat.)

That spells PRESENT and a single-gifter system sounds like socialism to me, so you can keep it.

Defending true conservatism,

Glenn Beck

--------------------------------------------------------------

Santa,

I need iron supplements, a tanning bed, acting lessons and 20,375,482 restraining orders.

Robert Pattinson

--------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Santa,

Can you bring me a pair of roller blades please? I’ve decided to start exercising more, and I think my legs will look really hot when I skate on roller blades. I’d like a pair of pink ones, if possible, with the sparklies on the side? Also, don’t forget a pair of matchi— Huh . . .  What tha?! Hey! What are you doing?! Give me back my pen and pape—

... Yo, Taylor, I’ma let you finish, but first—hey, Santa, this is Kanye. Fuck this bitch Taylor Swift! You needa bring those roller blades over to Beyonce’s house. Beyonce’s got the greatest legs on the planet. Her legs make Taylor’s legs look they’ve been sucked on by a coven of vampires for the last five years. And her video sucks. Gotta go.

Taylor Swift
(and Kanye West)

 




 
 
 
 
 
 
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