A letter from Santa

Dear Timmy,

Thank you very much for your letter. I hope you've been a very good boy this year. I would assume you have, considering all the toys you've asked for. You know, Timmy, years ago, kids would be satisfied with a ball, or a baseball glove, or a doll. I can't even pronounce half of the things on this list. Also, the PSP you requested.... you are aware that we make all the toys up here at the North Pole ourselves, right? Have you ever seen an elf? Do you think one of these brain damaged midgets has the technical skills to create a piece of equipment of that level? I've seen them staple their hand to their other hand when trying to assemble a paddle ball racket.

Another thing I noticed in your letter, despite the horrible handwriting that leads me to believe you are the offspring of a never to be discussed union between brother and sister, is that you don't at any point actually ask how I might be doing. None of you little brats ever does. Well, I'll tell you. A steady diet of milk and cookies, while it may sound like a dream come true to a child of limited intelligence such as yourself, has taken a huge toll on my body. I have diabetes, gout, lumbago, and the onset of berri-berri. You know why I fly a sleigh, Timmy? Because my foot was amputated 11 years ago. To make matters worse, I can't go to a real doctor in the city because they think I'm some sort of crazy person in a Santa costume, so I had to drink a bottle of brandy and let one of the elves go to town with a hacksaw while Rudolph held me down and stuck a bag of roasted chestnuts in my mouth to keep me from biting my tongue off.

Mrs. Claus hasn't looked at me in years, much less touched me. I have to satisfy myself with DVDs of reindeer porn that some of the less reputable reindeer put together in a small, homemade studio in the woods outside the house. Ever see reindeers f**k, Timmy? It's horrifying - the stuff nightmares are made of, but it's the closest I'll ever come again to a sexual experience. I've even considered joining them on one of their video shoots. I'm just that desperate, Timmy, and if I had a gun you know I'd blow my fat brains out right now, but try getting one of those little asshole elves to actually make a gun and they'll probably come back to me with a stuffed kitten. A stuffed kitten, Timmy, which at this stage of my sad, pathetic existence, I'd probably try to f**k.

But, that's probably more than you wanted to know. You probably just want me to hobble back to the workshop and make sure your MP3 player is ready to be delivered to you on Christmas morning so you can listen to your gangster rap and drown out grandma's voice as she falls down the stairs because mom and dad were too cheap to get a ramp installed for her wheelchair.

Merry f*****g Christmas, Timmy.

Santa