Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Did you know that eggnog is REALLY good with brandy? WAY better than rum. Of course you do. I believe your surname is Klaus, which sounds German. So does Jagermeister. I'm not a linguist but I think I see a pattern here.

So what, you imbibe a little in the off-months. I mean, there ARE eleven of them. And it's damn cold where you live, so Imma let you go on this one, because I'm thinking there's not much else to do at the North Freakin' Pole except drink. As indicated by your beer belly (not a bowl full of jelly. WHO EATS THAT?) and your gin blossom cheeks. (Imma let you finish but Rudolph had the reddest nose OF ALL TIME. Of all time.)

Oh you're a saint? Nicholas? REALLY. Catholic? GUILTY.

So speaking of alcohol, and by the way is there a way you can fit some of that stuff in your bag without it breaking and making the kids' toys smell all rummy and brandyish? Cause I really needed some before embarking to the toy store this morning. And by the way you're an ASS for outsourcing the elves' jobs to Toys 'R' Us. Someone should call their union.

They play Christmas music at TRU. Toys 'R' Us. Totally Ridiculously Unaccommodating. (That's right I said Christmas, bitches. The only Holiday music I like is Billie's.) (OK really I'm just kidding. I go wild for that dreidel song and I especially like yule carols.) What they SHOULD play at TRU (Try Rethinking Uprising) is "Welcome to the Jungle" and "No One Here Gets Out Alive."

I revised my will before leaving for TRU (Terribly Retarded Underlings) this morning, I'll have you know. I foresaw epic disaster of the 2012 variety. I informed my friends and family that I loved them and reminded all that I had had a good life.

Santa, since you know when I'm sleeping or awake (question: does that make you a stalker? Are you aware you may be on the sex offender registry? I mean, you're all into kids and ho-ho-ho's and you're kind of a dirty old man. Really. You should think about shaving.)

So since you're stalking me I'm guessing you know I got a really good parking space at TRU (Torrential Rage Unleashes) this morning. So I'm thinking I'm in the clear. It IS Sunday morning at 9AM, after all, and the good people of Cary are all getting ready for church so I should have this bitch to myself.

Santa, I never saw the two behemoth passenger buses parked in the back of the lot.

FML. Furtively Mimicking Lunacy.

So I'm stalking the aisles of TRU (Terrifying Really, Understandably) for Zhu-Zhu pets. Santa, while I'm exceedingly happy that you and the elves (are they all Indian now? Or Chinese. Hmmm....) developed virtual hamsters (you must have some Japanese elves. I give you points for at least maintaining a multicultural sweatshop) that don't stink or poop, I have to tell you that you're a little PROUD of them. While $8.99 isn't a bad price for a hamster that neither eats nor requires wood shavings, at $39.99 their habitat is a little pricey. Oh yeah, and HARD TO FIND. I only knew from an insider's insider that they would even BE at this particular TRU today. (Yes I have spies too, Santa. They know what you've been downloading so be good for goodness' sake! PERVERT.)

Well I got my Zhu-Zhu's AND their Totally Ridiculously Ultra-adorable little house and even the exercise wheel (!) despite your monopoly. Santa, WHEN did you become a capitalist? (While we're discussing rampant greed and Trampling Reprehensibly Upon the working poor might I ask that you reconsider your fashion choices? I mean, red fur is SO pimp. SO ARE THE BOOTS. You're jumping into chimneys, dude, NOT Afghanistan.)

So I'm scouting for some Star Wars and Fancy Nancy paraphernalia (you know that word, paraphernalia, right? I mean, you DO hit that pipe pretty often) and I witness an INVASION. I SEE GHETTO PEOPLE. In Cary, Santa! That's not right and you know it. So I'm all like WTF (White and Totally Freaking), what's up with all the ethnicity in my toy store? I mean, I'm Totally Righteously Upperclass, and all. (You, my friend, are not the only rampant capitalist/classist in the Northern Hemisphere. WHY ALL THE ELVES GOTTA BE WHITE, CRACKA?)

I thought they were going to stop bussing kids in Wake County.  Apparently not.  Oh--I see!  They come bearing White Suburban Christians.  (They were wearing Church name tags, THAT'S HOW I KNOW. You skeptic. And to think everyone believes in YOU so willingly!) They were all partnered up, each team looking eerily like an episode from Diff'rent Strokes. 

But Santa, each of the Churchies had a shopping cart. A cart, not a basket. They meant business. And each of the Churchies had with them A Child.

A Child. A poor, smiling, chimney-less child.

These were tent children, exiled and besieged wanderers and there was no room, no inn for them. Homeless children.

No toys for them.

(Santa: WHY?)

Not until some good people--did you know that Real Elves are as tall as the rest of us, Santa?--opened their hearts and their purses for some Holy, Heavenly children born without so much as a manger to lie in so that they, too, would know a Love that manifests itself in generosity.

They GAVE those kids Christmas, Santa. What Wise Men and Women.

I have to tell you that this morning I didn't see Totally Raging Uber-capitalism. Nor did I witness Typically self-Righteous Ultra-Christians.

So Santa, Imma let you finish, but those people at TRU (Truly Rejoicing Uplifters) this morning were the best gift-givers OF ALL TIME. Of all time.

Merry Christmas. And happy Kwanzaa and Hannukah and Diwali and Eid and Solstice and...well, you know the rest, don't you?

Your friend,
Becky

PS I'm still waiting for that Barbie Dreamhouse. And a new bike with a banana seat and handlebar streamers. Please tell the elves, if they can understand you.