Dear Santa,
My name is Matthew but I know you know that already. I’ts been a while since I’ve written to you. Not since the new Honda incident back in 1984. It didn’t matter to me if I was too young to ride it. I wanted it, damn you.
Honestly though. In the years prior to that, you came through for me. You and I had a good business relationship and we communicated well, if not often. I even gave you the odd wave or two when out shopping with mum in Royal Avenue. I didn’t go over to talk to you then because your diminutive minions made me feel uneasy. I think it might have been the fact that they were even smaller than I was and stank of Smithwicks. Or maybe it was the pointy ears that sometimes dangled down off their necks.
I loved talking to you before that, about what I’d been up to throughout the year; my differentiating factors of naughty and nice. (Admittedly frog flicking, calling the lad up the road a “shit lip”, and setting the living room carpet on fire were chalked up to the naughty column) but our back and forth banter was a necessary part of our business relationship. Right?
Since 1984 I started to question our relationship. Maybe I was going through some period of self discovery. After all: You’re older than everyone I know and you surround yourself with child-sized workers and one day a year you sneak into houses in order to make children “happy”.
I also started actually analyzing the songs that I had heard about you. “You see me when I’m sleeping, you know when I’m awake…” Fella, you started freaking me out.
It’s not bad enough that my mum told me that every time I masturbated, God killed a kitten. (In 1990 I was personally responsible for the deaths of over 1200 kittens) But I also had to worry that a fat guy, with a propensity for young children, isn’t going to bring me a Ninja Turtle because I’ve been firing off knuckle babies to the underwear section of my mothers catalogue.
Now it’s been brought to my attention, Santa, that you had nothing to do with the fact that I didn’t get that Honda bike and as such, I forgive you. Do you hear me you Jolly Fat Bastard, I BELIEVE AGAIN. I’m still a little creeped out over the whole watching me sleep thing but if that’s your little payback for bringing me presents, watch away you perverted rich prick!
I’ve changed a lot since ‘84 but I’ve got a great gift idea for me this year. Seeing as how I’ve developed this ever growing hate for society: This year I want a giant, destruction oriented, robotic transformers type car that I can drive. Not only will this make up for my lack of cool Honda, it will make my commute to work easier, and assist me in my plans for world domination. Not to mention being into work on time every morning.
Now, I’ll most likely not be at home for Christmas. I’ll be unreachable by phone, so if you could leave my killer car, fully fuelled up, outside of my house and shoot me an email when it’s delivered I’d greatly appreciate it. I will be back home a few days before New Years in order to get totally rat arsed with mates. So please try to make sure it’s delivered before then so i can take everyone for a ride. It’s good to talk to you again fat man, tell the missus I said, “hello.”
sincerely,
Matthew.
P.S. I’m off to touch myself inappropriately, can you please turn a blind eye to that and apologise to all kitten lovers for me? Thanks!
