I know how disappointed you feel, Santa, how discouraged you are this Christmas season because I feel that way, too. We must not let this erase all the great work we've done on our Christmas wish lists. A majority of kids—tens of millions of them—want LEGO Star Wars, but instead they'll be getting Darth Vader action figures. I say to those kids and to you, that loss hurts, but please don't despair. There will be another Christmas—a better, stronger, fairer Christmas. What I'm asking of you, Santa, is not a gift of material goods, but instead goodwill for everyone ... as well as those "special" items I requested in a separate email sent from my secure account.
OK, see, here's my list: More trade missions. Love those guys. I've already done China, Brazil, England (any chance you could get me knighted? Sir Gary has a certain ring to it). You name it. I just love to get out there and see the dang world.
Next, get me a PR consultant who can catch me before I do another foot-in-mouth moment. Jeez, I would have thought that Doobie Brothers going "¿Qué pasa?" and "here's a joint" would have gone down perfectly. And what about "Available Jones"? Everybody loves that Li'l Abner comic strip. Where could you go wrong with saying that?
And finally, put something in the water during the legislative session. Some of those guys 'n' gals up on the hill need a little sedation now and then, don't ya think?
As you know, a 2009 Harvard University study awarded Utah the distinction of being the top consumers of online pornography. We at the Online Nation for Adult Entertainment in Utah Society (ONANUS) feel this achievement is as prestigious as when Kraft named Utah the Jell-O capital of the world. (Have you seen Watch, It Wiggles? It's the first adult film to feature gelatin-enhanced goodies. I'll leave a Blu-ray copy with the milk and nookies.) But now our legislators have declared pornography a public health crisis.
I don't need to tell you how adult entertainment enriches one's life. My brother is your IT guy. He sees you when you're surfing. He's screen-grabbed your o-face. He knows that you say ho-ho-ho when you're about to skeet-skeet-skeet. Soooo! You'd better watch out ...
We believe that these lawmakers fear that the public will discover their own affinity for these art films, and that their favorite flavors are ... exotic. This desperate distraction affects billions of lonely people who masturbate for stress release. Generating one's own fantasies—you know, keepin' things fresh—can be exhausting. Porn is an invaluable aid.
Here's where you cum in: We want you to dox the Utah State Legislature, the Eagle Forum and LDS Church leadership. Yes, it's ethically dodgy, but privacy is already in the shitter. If nobody has dirty secrets, we can all lead rich, fulfilling lives—every Shirley Temple can find her own Hot Karl.
I'm getting Heat-Miser-hot just thinking about it.
Please have Rudolph submit a resignation letter to me, ASAP. I'll decide whether I accept that resignation at a later date. However, I am leaning toward retaining him on your staff, for when you fly over Salt Lake City, Santa. His brilliance will be vital as you penetrate that thick, toxic ashen muck we call air. Follow the lights lining Harvey Milk Boulevard (as it is always referred) for additional guidance on Christmas Eve. As you know, Santa Claus, your nice list will include many from Salt Lake City—home to bright minds, creative artists, altruistic philanthropists and the sanest drivers this side of the Wasatch Front.
Dear Santa Claus,
I've found you to be deeply committed to Christmas: You're wise and honest and courageous and compassionate. You're exactly the type of person we need delivering gifts. But there is a new path your sleigh could travel—a better path, a path for a new Christmas movement. It's not an easy sleigh path, but it's the path we have to work with. This new Christmas movement will bridge the divide between those who prefer Xbox over PlayStation. This movement will embrace all Christmas-loving Americans.
My fellow American,
First off, I apologize for my unappropriate letter I wrote to The Slovenian Sun at age 8 asking if you're real. The editor's response, titled "Yes Melania, There is a Santa Claus" set me straight up, now tell me. My husband is very pleased with the people of Utah. When he told me he was stopping there, I looked at him in eye and said, That is the place! "Go," I told him, pa rum pum pum pum.
Thank you, Utahslovakians. It might have been a blue Christmas without you, so mele kalikimaka, like we say in the homeland. Recently we met your version of billionaire, Mitt Romney. "Would you share with me Christmas dinner?" he asked, and gently Donald said, "Come inside." Mitty the statesman is a jolly happy soul, with a corncob pipe and a button nose and two eyes made out of domestic coal. Now, there must have been some magic in that silky Donald J. Trump Collection™ hat my husband found, because once he put it on him, he began to dance around. Said the little lamb to my son Barron, Do you hear what I hear? And we all laughed when we saw it in spite of ourselves. Good times, these are the good times ... le freak, c'est chic. I must go now. I just heard grandma got run over by a reindeer (that is no joke; reindeer trampling is second leading cause of death back in my country.)
In closing, all I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.
Привет. I, how you say, exude winter holiday joy; I feel like bear. For winter holiday, I ask, Comrade, for more of power. Like power of 10 virile bears. To start, Comrade Trump is excellent early winter holiday gift. I like. He is, how he say? Tremendous. For next present, Comrade, I would like marionette string that will fit on tiny hands. I also ask for new slippers, vodka, jigsaw puzzle and Ukraine.
Is it so much to ask for Hillary's head on a platter? I asked for it last Christmas and what did I get? Lots of eye-rolling and defiance in committee, that's what. What's the good in being chairman of a committee if you can't break people down to size? You know, they want me to go after the Trumpster, but where's the upside in that? I didn't make all the brimstone-spiked deals I did to just give up now. So I'm going to throw it open to you, Santa. This Christmas, just ask yourself one question: What can I do to make the big J happy? I'll bet you'll find the answer right away.
Thank you for your service. You are a credit to America. I would award you the Disgraced Former Utah State Attorney General's Award for Greed as Economic Stimulus, but that's not a thing—similar to the case against me, which was dismissed, but still haunts my dreams.
So what do I want for Christmas? Well, I had it all. I was the most powerful attorney in Utah. I had my own bobble head, a crusade against alcopops, a porn czar and the chance to someday be God of my own world. I tried to continue practicing law, but nobody wants to work with me now. So, I'm schlepping nicotine mist. (It's OK, I'm not a hypocrite—I'm only marketing to current smokers and vapers or adults interested in addictive substances. No kids; that's the Alcopop Mafia's turf.) I tried getting into medicinal marijuana, but my brother-partner wussed out.
So how about a do-over? Can you muster this Christmas miracle? You know, where I wake up on Christmas and discover it's not too late to make things right? I don't know what I could do differently, but definitely something.
Failing that, could you talk my brother into reconsidering the medi-pot thing? I really think he'd listen to you. He's a scientist, but he still believes in miracles.
Or maybe you could just help me squash alcopops. Do you know they have alcoholic root beer now? And cherry cola?! The End Times are nigh.
My lawyer says I shouldn't write to you, but what the heck. I can't get seem to get a fair trial in this town, so maybe you'll listen to me. I always believed in you as a kid, but once you start getting out in that dark old world, you know how it is—temptation wherever you turn. But anyway, since the state seems determined to put me away while not giving me the evidence I need to defend myself, I guess you should get me some nice stocking stuffers, like a crowbar, a file or two and cake mix to bake it into, and any other get-out-of-jail-quick cards that come to mind.
Hey little bud. How're those red cheeks doing? Come over here and give me a big ol' brother hug. There you go. Now you know what's on the top of my wish list—a U.S. Senate seat. Aren't I just made for it? Man, I can rap like nobody's business, I go after all those big bad white collar crime guys. Did I mention the rapping? I've been enjoying hanging out with my crime-busting guys in my office, running round town doing our best Dick Tracy, kicking ass and taking names. But you know, I need to show my serious side, too. It isn't all about being Utah's top cop, I tell you. I feel another rap coming on. Get down with me, bro.
I'm over here! Helloooooo! Santa! Can'tcha see me?! Santa! Santa! Yep. Right here, in Congress, where I've been for four goll-darn years! This Christmas, I'd like for people to know that I exist. Give me a placard, a neon sign or Jason Chaffetz' gift for sniffing out Benghazi scandals, or how about Rob Bishop's unending obsession with federal land management? Maybe you could give me a new name. Is it my benign name? Chris Stewart ... Imagine having a name like Mia Love. People in my district focus more on Utah's other members of Congress. I'm starting to believe voters only picked me because of my party affiliation ...
Merry Christmas. Or as you atheist perverts like to say, "Merry Xmas," because you have ripped the "Christ" right out of "Christmas." Why do you mock the 99.9 percent of Americans who believe that Jesus was a friendly spaceman sent to Earth to protect the Constitution and bury all the dinosaur bones in the ground? His green spaceblood is on your hands, "Saint" Nick. Funny how "saint" is just another word for "Satan" and "Nick" is the sound an angel makes when it dies. What's not funny is how Common Core forces innocent children to gay-marry each other in your honor, thus forever barring them from any chance at eternal salvation unless they can climb to the top of Mount Doom and score an NFL touchdown. We should be teaching our children the sacred principles of the Constitution, such as, "Thou shalt not menstruate," and, "No shirt, no shoes, no service." Instead we poison their souls with your promises of "holiday" cheer aka welfare. Eight hundred million Americans every year are killed every day before they are even born, and you do nothing to stop it. If I were you, I would feel nothing but crushing humiliation, but I am SUPERDELL and I feel totally awesome because I know your day of reckoning will be painful and permanent. I would like a dune buggy for Christmas.
As a politician, I don't quite understand this whole "naughty or nice" thing. I'm more of an "ends justify the means" gal. Which is why, despite being Jewish, I'm writing to you today.
This year I was forced to resign as chair of the Democratic National Committee because I worked to undermine Bernie Sanders' presidential campaign. I'm supposed to be neutral, they said. Whatever. This is politics; we make and break rules. So shouldn't "naughty or nice" be subjective?
You're a smart, if corpulent and hoary, man. You see where I'm going with this. I want back in. I believe I have more to offer my friends in this country.
You and I could be friends.
My sources tell me you're about to face a tough challenge from Krampus. Are you prepared to give up being Lootsmith of the Universe? I happen to know you've been outsourcing toy making to China. And do I even have to bring up the Candy Cane Pipeline? It's a new world, Santa. People are more than willing to let a brazenly evil entity run the show. And the latest polls out of the North Pole show that your approval rating is headed south.
I can help you. Drop an offer down my chimney.
First of all, let me just clear the air—I'm no longer upset about the fact that you didn't get me the White House like I asked for back in December 2011. I know that, after I lost, I called you a con artist, a fraud, and said something about how your promises were as worthless as a degree from Claus University. I was just angry, alright? I mean, we had such a good track record right up until then. I thought you'd come through for me like you did with chairing the Olympic Committee, getting elected governor of Massachusetts, and who could forget the Christmas when you brought us Seamus, our beloved Irish setter?
I would have asked you for the secretary of state gig, but to be quite honest with you, I was banking on the fact that our president would be another Democrat, and I know there are some things even you can't pull off. Incidentally, it didn't go very well when I tried to get that present for myself.
So, now that it's that time of year, I thought I'd ask for something that I think I'll really need going into 2017. I'm not sure how many of these you have just lying around your workshop, but Santa, this year could you bring me a new set of balls? I promise that I won't lose them again.
Subway Kid here. I'm betting you've already updated your records to show that as my real name. It's OK. I've made peace with it. My missionary name tags even say, "Elder Subway Kid."
That's where I'm writing you from: My room at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah. As I prepare to commence two years in service of my church, I'm reminded that police officers are sworn to protect and serve. Instead, although they've dropped the charges after security footage and forensic testing revealed no wrongdoing on my part, the Layton Police Department couldn't even apologize. And they continue to conceal the identity of the officer who complained that I dosed his drink with methamphetamine and THC.
Why do they protect him? I'm the one who received death threats.
It only seems fair that they apologize and disclose the officer's identity to the public, so we both have this hanging over our heads for the rest of our lives. I know as a servant of Christ that I should forgive, and I am trying. But doesn't the Bible say an eye for an eye?
Please, Santa. Use your powers to compel the Layton PD to do the right thing. I'll make sure that my coworkers leave you the really good white chocolate raspberry cookies—the ones that we didn't yank from the oven prematurely.
I'm buying Chrimmus and taking your job.
It's the only way I can improve my reputation. As a narcissist, I can't abide anyone hating me. As a probable sociopath, I do what I do. Of course, what I do, and who I do it to, is why people hate me ...
Thinkin' about that hurts my head.
You don't own Chrimmus. The Christians stole it from the Pagans and neither has provenance. I have money coming out of my greasy butthole and everything has a price.
Anyway, I'm gonna board my jet and crank up the rest of the Wu-Tang tracks I was supposed to release when Russia helped The Donald do the "impossible." I'll bass so hard that your workshop will crumble when I'm 10 miles out. Upon landing, I will select at random one elf to kill and eat while the others watch. I will then rename your reindeer for different members of Wu-Tang Clan. (The elf carcass can be ODB.)
After that, it'll be Chrimmus as usual. I'll get the children of the world to revere me, then teach their children to do the same.
Depending on the length of my trial, you probably have two or three Chrimmusses left. Make 'em count. That's what I tell patients who can't afford my meds. HAW-HAW-HAW! I mean, HO-HO-HO!
Sue me. Martin Shkreli ain't nuttin' ta mess wit.
How's it hanging? Wilford Brimley's the name. Acting's the game. You might have heard of me. I was in Cocoon. That was a movie. But I sure heard of you. You give all the presents to all the good chillun. That takes a big, healthy heart, and healthy hearts needs proper nutrition. That's why I'm taking a moment today to talk to you about diabetes. You might not know this, but I have diabetes. When I found out I had diabetes, it scared the living bejeebus out of me. Now I ain't afraid of dying. Dying is what comes to all of us. I was afraid of the diabetes. Now as a concerned citizen, I am afraid that you might have diabetes. I notice you got a weight problem, and I know you been eating a whole mess of milk and cookies. Now milk ain't bad. Milk is the nectar of the bosom. But those cookies, boy. Boy, those cookies will get you. One time, I ate a whole mess of cookies. Next thing I know, my wife finds me lying in the front yard with my pants off. My wife, she asks me, "Wilford, what are you doing?" And I don't remember a darn thing. I guess sometimes all you can do is dust the crumbs off and put your pants back on. Anyways, Merry Christmas.
You've been good to me over the years, giving me undefeated seasons at Utah and Ohio State and a couple of National Championships to boot. Things are going great for me right now—I'm making over $6 million a year and my team is in the College Football Playoffs. What would someone who has it all like me want for Christmas, you may ask?
When I wake up in my Columbus, Ohio mansion, I'd like to sign a dozen more four- and five-star recruits—none of that two- and three-star garbage like I got in Salt Lake City or Gainesville. I could also use some Tums and a stress ball to curb that stress-induced acid reflux. And if you could send that khaki-wearing douche bag Jim Harbaugh who coaches the team up North some coal, that would be great.
Off the top of my head: I need bandages, gauze, splints, vaccines, elixirs, protein shakes, Tylenol, acupuncture needles, Penicillin, arm casts, leg casts, toe casts, ointments, sutures, magic mojo, Pepto, a cool washcloth, a spell to reanimate Burks' corpse, pumice stones, IV drips, Alka-Seltzer, chicken noodle soup, defibrillators, dental floss, medicinal cannabis, safety goggles, oxygen masks, steel-toed sneakers, gurneys, stethoscopes, ipecac, codeine, vitamin C, hypnotherapy and whatever other panacea you can drum up because enough is enough, man.
It's been a tough year, that's for sure. For all the gymnastics I do and running round the stadium every game and working the crowd up into a frenzy, the drama on the field is ... lacking. Not that the end of the season didn't bring some fireworks. The fans have all been calling for the coach's head and what does the front office do? Serve up Javi Morales and Jamison Olave instead. I'm not saying that they weren't long in the tooth and that we need fresh blood on the field, but come on guys, make a clean sweep why don't you? So I guess that's a long way of asking, isn't it time we had something to sing about at the Riot? I want to watch some soccer that takes my breath away. That's what I want from you, Santa—from one guy in a ridiculously hot costume to another.
Thank you for renting our facility for your last office holiday party. We hope you, your employees and their families enjoyed the screenings of For Your Height Only and Silent Night, Deadly Night.
The reason I write is that twice now, undercover agents from the Division of Alcoholic Beverage Control (DABC), visited Brewvies, ordered beer and bought tickets to films that received R-ratings for nudity and/or onscreen simulated sex. In one of these films, Deadpool, there is some hanging of brain and/or neck, plus simulated unicorn ejaculate. Apparently Utah Code states, and I paraphrase, that the simultaneous consumption of booze and sexy images is prohibited, lest it lead to roving gangs of foamy-mouthed rapists.
We've already paid a $1,627 fine for the first "violation." This second carries a fine of up to $25,000 and a 10-day suspension of our liquor license. Former Salt Lake City Mayor Rocky Anderson is already whooping ass on our behalf, so we wouldn't dream of greedily requesting more.
Instead, we remember DABC agents Bradley Bullock and Sean Cannon. Since Christmas is a time for giving, please leave a six-pack and a Deadpool Blu-ray in their stockings. According to court documents, they saw the movie thrice and twice, respectively. They must really like it. Please also give them a Ryan Reynolds blow-up doll and an inflatable unicorn with rainbow jizz refills. Doesn't matter who gets what, so long as they both have something to suck on.
Hey, big guy! Do you have me up in the North Pole, yet? You don't? Well that's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. See, I'm grateful for all of the fans that you've given me here in Utah. I mean, these people eat a lot of french fries, so I do pretty well. But it's not enough, man—I have kids to feed. With that in mind, here's what I need from you this year.
I'm tired of being stuck as a "fast food" condiment. You think Kanye West has ever been to an Arctic Circle? You think that J-Law has even considered putting me on her onion rings? Does she even eat onion rings? Look, the point is that I need some help stepping up my game. I need to be on tables at the French Laundry, Urasawa—I'm talking more Guy Savoy and less Guy Fieri.
I'm so close to being a thing in Europe, and everyone seems to be crapping themselves over serving fries with aioli—I don't think it's too much to ask from a man with your influence and culinary taste to just give me the push I need to make it to the big leagues. Right now, I'm lucky if that Dijon d-bag lets me party with him, but I could get used to rolling with truffle oil, saffron—you know, triple-A condiments. Think it over, OK?
I have a confession to make. I fear it might land me on your "naughty" list, but that's a small price to pay for a clear conscience. Here it is: I'm a joke. I'm a big, fat, stupid joke, and I don't deserve any of the attention or success I've garnered in recent weeks. At the beginning, before all this madness ever came to fruition, I was just this curious oddity. Like, "Who would be dumb enough to buy this junk?" But then, for some insane reason, people actually paid attention to me—either because they thought I was an amusing distraction in the news, or because people really are that dumb. Then they started throwing money at me as though I were a legitimate option. I mean, really, who would invest in something so coarse and thoughtless? And whose lives am I going to improve? Who am I actually going to help? Then the unthinkable happened, though I guess we all should've seen it coming: I sold out. The American people decided they wanted me, and then I promptly sold out. Granted it wasn't anywhere near a majority of Americans who asked for me, but it was enough of them. So now those poor schmucks are stuck with me for God knows how long. I feel extra remorse for the people who didn't ask for me but got me anyway—it can be hard to get rid of something that someone else gave you, especially when they were so inexplicably excited about it. I feel bad for being such a fraud, but frankly these people have no one to blame but themselves.
I'm a good boy such a good boy. I like to run and catch the ball in the park. Throw the ball, throw the ball! Why do I feel so tired more and more? Why do I nap more and more? I want to catch the ball, but I'm so so sleepy now. I want to sleep all day and all night. Dear Santa, I don't want to sleep so much anymore. I want to run and catch the ball and be fast, fast, fast! I want to run again! Please can I run again? Please? I promise I'll be good!