Sunday, October 22, 2006

An Open Letter to Santa Claus

Dear Santa-

I hope this letter finds you well and that none of the reindeer have tapeworms or anything. I care about your reindeer, even the stupid ones like Dancer. I care both because they're majestic, if itchy-looking, animals and because I ate some reindeer meat a couple of weeks ago in Alaska and I've kind of had some intestinal issues since then. Let's just say I now have one over-developed forearm from making so many toilet paper mittens. That's what women do, Santa. Every time they use the bathroom, they wind so much Charmin around their hands it looks like they've jammed their fist inside a hornet's nest.

Maybe before I alluded to poop, I should have asked if you were eating. Sorry for that.

Anyway, all I want for Christmas this year is osteoporosis.

And maybe a new housecoat, some nitroglycerin pills, and a Columbo DVD box set because I am apparently now 63 years old.

See, this morning I was cleaning my house (read: picking up the confetti and empty Teddy Grahams boxes scattered about the Nintendo) and decided to vacuum. You know, cause that's how I roll. I have a hand-me-down vacuum from my mother who used it so often she could have swept up all the debris between here and Mercury. My mother vacuums something every single day. She is the Cal Ripken of the Dirt Devil. The vacuum...wait, is there a synonym for 'vacuum cleaner' that I could use here? Forget it. From now on, I'm referring to it as Charles. Charles is so heavy it's like pushing John Madden across the carpet as he performs a downward-facing dog.

Anyway, I was standing there wondering if anyone else had ever pulled a hamstring while Charles-ing. Or ruptured their spleen. Or just gave up and climbed on top of the kitchen counter and filmed their own submission for Pants Off Dance Off. And halfway through lip-synching "Onward Christian Soldier" (the Andy Griffith version...suck it, Jim Nabors) I thought, "Hmm, maybe I'll ask for a new Charles for Christmas."

And then I slammed my head in my car door repeatedly.

An effing vacuum for Christmas? What's wrong with me? I can't be that mature; I spent the remainder of the afternoon spelling dirty words out of Alphabits. I can, however, hear my bones getting brittle. You work fast, Claus.

So, I'll see you and a big shiny box full of stooped posture and broken hips at Christmas. As always I'll leave some treats for you: a cookie and a bottle of Purell, because God knows you need to wash your hands after being in my neighbor's house.

Stay's slimming. Well, being jolly and taking 34 Trimspas.


P.S. I'm really sorry that Tim Allen is playing you again in another wretched movie. I didn't really pay attention to the trailer but it looks like it also has an irregular-looking, TJ Maxx-caliber reindeer and features Jack Frost in the role of Clay Aiken. Sweet.

P.P.S. Oh, could I get some more Charmin too? TP mittens are helpful but fingerless gloves, not so much.


Santa Claus said...


I am sorry to be so late responding to your letter. You know, my team scours the web for open letters on the internet, but we sometimes just miss them. It really is best to just send me an email.

Anyway, I hope you'll write me this year. My email address is: OR you can contact me at

Have a great autumn!


sunflowerrloverr said...

It's funny that you equate vaccuum gifts with maturity. Or rather, amusing that I read this TODAY.

Just yesterday I asked my stepdad to buy me my very own Charles for Christmas (no...NOT Christmas 2009...Christmas 2008, that procrastinating hippie bastard!)

But then I realized that I'm 22 and imediantly demanded a much more age appropriate gift. Drugs, plane tickets to hot spots, and booze.

No word back yet.