Letters to Santa
Santa has a tough job. Parents thrust into his lap conveyor beltloads of ponderous, squirming
children who tear at his beard and aggravate his hernia. Trucks of mail arrive in front of his shop,
delivering letters written in unintelligible crayon and with postage due. Soot-caked chimneys with stuck
flues increase the chances of lung cancer with each passing year.
But Santa is such a jolly old elf, with a belly like a bowl of Jell-o, that we figured he's had
enough time to accustom himself to the burden, perhaps even find a kind of joy in carrying a load that
would drive any lesser man postal.
Imagine our surprise, then, when we discovered this actual correspondence from Santa to the children
who love him. Santa clearly is a man who is living on the edge.
It's time to consider the words of Weird Al Yankovic, who once advised, "... if someone's coming
down your chimney, you better load your gun and shoot to kill."
Why are you always making toys for everyone? You make a lot of toys.
Because it beats making license plates or folding laundry.
All I want for Christmas are election results that are definitive.
Pack your bags and be by the chimney at 11 p.m. Christmas Eve; the flight to
Albania takes but a few minutes by reindeer. (There aren't many nice
children there for me to visit, but I can still manage an air-drop if I'm
out of parachutes.)
Speech ain't free (nor is the ride),
How can you manufacture all those toys and give them away without ever going
Simple, dear. The elves are chained to their workbenches, and any time a
union tries to form, I toss the ringleaders out in the snow. I'm Santa, darn
it, and I'm the only game in town.
Keeping alive the spirit of Andrew Carnegie,
Why are you so darn fat?
Because when I go house to house on Christmas Eve and look at all those tiny
sweet sleeping faces, I find that I can never eat just one.
Savoring each morsel,
I don't like my younger sibling Dana anymore. The kid's mean, chews up my
toys, and smells weird. I'd like a new one, please.
You're in luck! Neither Dana nor your parents wanted you any more either, so
by replacing you I can kill three birds with one stone.
Returns accepted w/ receipt only,
You don't *really* eat kids, do you? Only the Grinch does that sort of
thing, and he's ugly and hairy and green, and you don't look like that at
Hate to burst your bubble, kid, but you have no idea what I look like under
this rubber mask.
Trick or treat,
Why do people call you Kris Kringle?
Because the name Brimburgle Schnartlin Zimbrelowski is a real pain to spell.
(Trust me; you never grew in Phillipsburg, New Jersey.)
Phonetically last but not least,
Why do we always leave cookies and milk out for you on Christmas Eve?
Because with all the driving I have to do, hot wings and beer make people
Why does Rudolph have a bright shiny schnoz?
Because he's the only reindeer who's not a brown-noser.
Hankering for flank steaks,
Do you believe in the Easter Bunny?
I did, until last year. Now the larder is empty again. Did you know he was
filled with vanilla nougat?
Still wishing for visions of venison,