San Diego police have nabbed CityBeat editor David Rolland on jaywalking charges and are holding him until the North Pole Justice Department can secure an indictment under the Official Elf Secrets Act of 1890. This is nothing more than an outrageous attempt to prevent our newspaper from publishing this secret database of Letters to Santa written by prominent celebrities, athletes, politicians and even a couple of border checkpoints. We stand by our story: We did not provide any form of spying software to a workshop employee. We had never heard Blitzen’s name before The New York Times reported it.
These letters have been read and vetted by Kelly Davis, Nathan Dinsdale, Peter Holslin, Enrique Limón and Dave Maass—and all they want for Christmas is Rolland’s release.
Secular Manifestation of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ,
We would like 200 tons of shotgun shells, no taxes, Barack Hussein Obama’s birth certificate, 100,000 truck decals of Calvin kneeling before the cross, 500,000 truck decals of Calvin pissing on the Raiders’ logo, all of mama’s going-out jewelry turned into bars of solid gold bullion, a pair of those Yosemite Sam mudflaps, a couple more congressional seats, 450,000 cases of Milwaukee’s Best Ice, for you to tell Charlene that I’ll take the garbage out as soon as she makes me a goddamn sandwich and shuts the hell up about it if she knows what’s good for her, all remaining copies of Glenn Beck’s The Christmas Sweater and a refill on our Haloperidol prescription.
The Tea Party
I would like three human skulls, one vintage Waffen-SS uniform, a baby rattle, a John Wayne Gacy clown painting, a copy of The Anarchist Cookbook, a Kabuki makeup kit and a snuff film.
I bet you’re freezing your jingle bells off up there in the North Pole right about now. Don’t get me wrong, the Arctic Circle is beautiful in August (I have a few rent-stabilized apartments up there myself) but, come Dec. 26, you’re going to want to relax in a place that doesn’t smell like wet reindeer and where nobody cares if morbidly obese people like ourselves nap by the pool with our bowl full of jelly hanging out of our swim trunks like some sort of grotesque cellulite Dali melting clock. That’s why I’m offering you this very exciting market prospect for shared ownership in a three-bed, three-bath beachside Dominican villa. A timeshare is the way to go on holiday when you want to enjoy more but spend less. See the attached brochure or stop by one of my free information sessions at the LaGuardia Marriott. Just don’t let this exclusive opportunity pass you by!
Rep. Charles Rangel (D-NY)
I know my position on the gay issue has been vague, so let me just clear the air and say that some of my best supporters are homosexuals, and though I know they’re unhappy and won’t be going to heaven, I truly believe they can balance it out with fiscal conservatism and campaign donations. While they’re technically naughty, I don’t oppose the idea of giving them presents. It’s an evolving philosophy.
For Christmas, all I want is for CityBeat to get bored with me and Council President Tony Young to spell my name correctly. But, while I’ve got you here, my husband wants to tell you that our Slapitz invention is a great stocking stuffer for any Beanie-baby collector.
Lorie Zapf City Council District 6
Great Ice Wizard of the North,
I need six eyes of newt, an order of bat wings, a goblet of fresh goat’s blood, a Komodo dragon tail, one live female virgin (preferably white) and a 60-gallon cauldron (preferably black). Also, a Nancy Pelosi doll and a bunch of needles.
P.S. I am not a witch.
My name is Christopher Nolan. I directed Memento, The Dark Knight and, you know, other films. If you could just eat the cookie I’ve enclosed before reading the rest of this letter. Yes, that’s it. Goodnight.
You’re storming out of Blip Toys’ headquarters in Minnetonka after laying it down that you won’t stocking-stuff a single Squinkie until the board kicks back a cool million to the injured reindeer recovery fund. Suddenly, a red sack is thrown over your head and you’re shoved into the cab of a snow plow. A kidnapper forces you to gulp down extremely potent eggnog. They’ve taken Frosty the Snowman, too, and he whispers that Mrs. Claus is behind it all. You lose consciousness to the patter of your elf bodyguards pelting the windows with candy canes….
You’re in a ski lodge in Aspen, sipping hot toddies with Leonardo DiCaprio, who tells you to ignore the way the room is swaying. Passing carolers are glaring. DiCaprio informs you that Mrs. Claus and Frosty have been intercepting your mail and plan to start a side racket selling childrens’ data. Now the carolers are on the ceiling, whipping you with their scarves.
DiCaprio passes you a concentrated tryptophan tablet and says you can steal the secret from Mrs. Claus’ mind if you just go to sleep….
You’re at the foot of an iceberg, looking up at a gingerbread fortress. A team of Saint Bernards pulls your sled to the top, while you dodge fruitcakes from dive-bombing reindeer. You sneak in through the chimney and head straight to the cupboard, where you’ve always known Mrs. Claus hides her secret liqueurs. Yes, beneath an art-deco brandy bottle shaped like a knight standing on a film reel, there is a single envelope. You rip it open:
“BEST PICTURE: INCEPTION.” You hear the distant melody of David Bowie and Bing Crosby’s “Little Drummer Boy.” Back at the lodge, you’re strapped into a ski-lift chair and someone’s just cut the cable. In Minnetonka, the snow plow falls through thin ice.
Wake up. You’re back in your workshop.
Santa, all I really want for Christmas is world peace. Bless you.
I have several thousand “Meg 2010: A New California” yard signs, bumper stickers, posters and T-
shirts that I need to get rid of. You can bid with confidence (never mind my 41 percent positive rating) as I’m a top spender—er—seller. There’s no minimum and the auction ends Dec. 24 at 11:59 p.m. Or you can Buy It Now for $163 million.
Remember that Bill Murray movie, Groundhog Day? You know—the one where the guy keeps living the same day over and over? That’s what I want. Take me back to Sept 26, 2007, and leave me there. The Padres beat the Giants 11-3; I had seven months before I had to even start thinking about a budget. Carl wasn’t elected yet. It was a balmy 76 degrees and Rana made chili and cornbread for dinner. I like cornbread.
Mayor Jerry Sanders
Hey you. Just got done with practice. I’m gonna jump in the shower right now and then I have some meetings and stuff, but I’m going back to the hotel later to just, ya know, chill. So, uh, send me a text because I’ll be around. I’d love to have you come over tonight, but, uh, if you don’t, I understand. I think one of the elves was going to give me your number or, uh, give you my number or whatever. So, you know, just send me a text. I’d love to see you later. Alright, talk to you later. Bye.
P.S. I’ve included a photo of my penis (see attachment)
I just need to know, for my own gratification, if nothing else, am I in the middle of the most elaborate episode of Punk’d ever, or is everyone in this country just fucking insane?
P.S. I could really use a cigarette.
I just want you to tell the world that I wasn’t holding out for the first three months of the season because of my contract. Nobody on this team shows up until November.
San Diego Chargers
Enclosed please find my Roadmap to Recovery: North Pole Edition, prepared, pro bono, to help you rein in your bloated present-distribution system. Some highlights:
• Eliminate specialty pay for gift wrappers. Just because they’re at risk for paper cuts doesn’t mean they deserve a 15-percent premium.
• Reduce the reindeer crew. My analysis shows you can pull a full sleigh with six reindeer. Time to put Dasher and Dancer out to pasture.
• Two words: pensionable pay. Reduce the elves’ salaries by 5 percent. The less they’re paid, the less you have to pay into their pensions.
Like I said last year, Santa, it’s time for you to stand up to the United Brotherhood of Elves and Reindeer. The children of the world have provided a clear, unmistakable mandate for reform: More presents, less pensions.
Oompa Loompa, do-ba-dee-doo, I’ve got a perfect puzzle for you. Oompa Loompa, do-ba-dee-dee, if you are wise you’ll listen to me. What do you get when you gain 63 congressional seats? Eating as much as an elephant eats. What are you at getting terribly fat? What do you think will come of that? A majority, that’s what (I like the look of it). Oompa Loompa do-ba-dee-da, given an uninformed electorate you will go far.
You will live in happiness too, like the Oompa Loompa do-ba-dee-doo.
Please send me another case of Coppertone SPF-15.
Rep. John Boehner
(R-OH) Speaker of the House
I need a restraining order on Tijuana. Seriously, Mexico is really freaking me out right now.
I’d appreciate it if you could help San Ysidro grow a pair. Thanks.
P.S. The wait here is 30 to 60 minutes shorter if you have customs trouble on Christmas Eve.
Call me Ishmael. Or Moe-hommaned or something that sounds Al- Kada. So the liberal types are saying I plag… uh… plageriz… um—they said I copied other people in my mem-ores. That’s just sillier than a two-headed steer with teets. I wrote what I recalled from my recollections. You see, there’s an old saying in San Diego. I know it’s in Texas, probably in San Diego, that says “Fool me once… shame on… shame on you… fooled me… can’t get fooled again.” At any rate, those Huffingteen posters got it all wrong. We are just beating the boats against the current, born again ceasessessfully into the past. Or something like that. Anyway, I’m sending you 200,000 copies of Decision Points to put under the tree wherever you see a Subara with one of them “Coexist” bumper stickers in the driveway. It’ll make their heads explode.
George W. Bush
Just wanted to tell you that the Coach of the Year award was nice and all, but couldn’t you give me one more friggin win in September? Seriously. How about this season my boys play like they did last year only without pulling a David Carradine-in-a-Bangkok-closet at the end? Thanks.
San Diego Padres
P.S. Any chance I can get Adrian Gonzalez back?
Hey you fat fuck,
just wanted to see if you were going to make it to my birthday party
this year. Oh? What’s that? You have to work late and there’s all these
presents and the chimneys and the cookies and you’d like to but you have
this work thing and blah, blah, blah. Whatever, dick. J/K, I know
you’re busy. But I sent you the Evite anyway just so you can see all the
vagine you’ll be missing out on (Tooth Fairy is gonna be there. A
little Cinnamon schnapps and I’ll be tapping that ass—AGAIN). Anyway,
hit me up on my cell when you’re done doing your little minstrel show
for The Man.
didn’t do anything naughty, I mean, I might’ve unintentionally tried to
do something illegal, but once I checked with my lawyer about it after I
caught, then I totally took it back, so it doesn’t count, right? No, it doesn’t, and Donna Frye doesn’t know shit, she hasn’t done shit, and she doesn’t deserve shit, because, by the way, I’ve got a few people on staff here who worked really hard for the district and I think they deserve a little something extra, but not David Alvarez, that dude deserves a lump of coal, but no, really he doesn’t, because he’ll use it to heat his office because I took the thermostat with me too, so I’ll just keep that lump of coal and bring it to Sacramento to remind me that I have a barbecue to go to at Felipe’s house on Thursday. By the way, I hope your elves are union, because if they’re not, I’m not going to be able to go to bat for you on that reindeer deregulation. I could keep talking forever but I know you’re really busy.
My son was wondering if you’d like to be his running mate in 2012. The Abominable Snowman, Chupacabra, that weird rabbit from Donnie Darko and four of the five voices in his head have already turned my Alvie down. On the plus side, we’ve already received a check for $1 million from something called American Crossroads.
Alvin Greene’s mom/landlord
I just wanted to say thanks again for Alvin Greene. But if you want to get me something else, the Die Hard box set would be pretty sweet.
Sen. Jim DeMint (R-SC)
Hi there, Santa.
I’ve got but one gosh darn wish: make sure those TV cameras roll, baby, roll! Sarah Palin’s Alaska’s been TLC’s biggest runaway hit since My Monkey Baby—a true feat since I don’t even let my girls wear makeup! And if Bristol’s giratin’ on that two-step show wasn’t enough, now I’ve got some fancy producers eyeing my Trigg for a future series called So You Think You Can Do Algebra. I’m tellin’ ya, these shows have made my image soar like a bush plane. The moose on the compound hardly ever pee themselves when they see me coming now. Well, I’m off to scrape the baby marmot fur from my snow boots now and wrap a little something I got for Levi. Life would be easier if the Cracker Barrel sold live grenade-shaped boxes, don’t cha think? Wink, wink.
I need 100 cases of Febreze, 50 barrels of stain-remover and about a million of those little pine tree air fresheners.
I was wondering if I could trade places with the English Channel. Maybe those Limey bastards at BP will get the picture after they munch on some Pennzoil-and-chips.
Gulf of Mexico
This letter is to inform you that effective Dec. 24, your company and its affiliates will be absorbed by Harpo Inc’s newest venture, OWN, and you are hence relieved of all duties. That’s right, old man, you’ve been bought out! How is this possible? I’m Oprah, that’s how. I bet you’re regretting not bringing me that pair of shoelaces I asked for when I was 6 now, hmm? The North Pole will now be headquartered in Chicago, and your little helpers ain’t part of the deal. I have assembled an army composed of a slew of post-menopausal housefraus who’ll take over toy-making duties. I don’t want to stir shit up with the PETA people, so Dr. Phil will be guiding me this year (God knows his nose is red enough). Not so jolly now, huh, bitch?
Please send us back down the San Jose Mine. Our wives are driving us nuts.
“Los 33” Chilean Miners
I’d like a burka made out of skinned puppies. After wearing cigarette sunglasses, Diet Coke can hair curlers, a meat dress and that weird Statue of Liberty-stuck-in-a-latexglove outfit from the “Bad Romance” video, I gotta say, I’m kinda running out of ideas.
Yo, Tons of Fun,
Hey, no disrespect, but you got more chins than Chinatown, dawg. You can hate on me, but what can you possibly say to somebody who looks like Rambo, pretty much, with his shirt off ? Uh-huh. Get the fuck outta here. So if you want to look like The Situation, which is gonna be pretty friggin’ hard, you need to get that protein in your diet. So how’s aboutchu try NoxEdge. It builds muscle and cuts the fatty fat. You gonna get so ripped, it’s like, oh my gawd. But you gonna need to ditch the suit. You look like Snooki coughed up blood all over Oprah’s pajamas.
The steaming pile of reindeer shit you call Santa’s 12 Days of Christmas is the worst Christmas album since Boom Snap’s Mistletoe Superstar. “Jingle Bells” has all the cheer of a Prozac ad, your off-key duet with Mrs. Claus in “Silent Night” makes Alvin and the Chipmunks sound like The Supremes and the revoltingly cheesy “Let it Snow” makes me think of Kenny G being cornholed with his saxophone. Go fuck yourself, Santa—you just ruined Christmas.