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Dear Santa,
I know you usually get letters before Christmas and not after but I just had to write and ask…
What the heck?
I'll preface my opinion of you with a recap of the preceding year, when filled with delusion I thought my good behavior would be rewarded with the gifts I so respectfully asked for in my earlier letter dated December 1st.
Perhaps I'm wrong about this, but I can confidently say that if I was not first on your "nice" list, I know I was at least in the running. Or was until that little boy in the wheelchair in Arizona raised all that money for the orphan shelter. Touché, little man!
However, I did have better grades than anyone in my school, volunteered to feed the homeless at the food shelter on Thanksgiving and did not tell a single little white lie even though mommy is not herself since the divorce and I certainly could have gotten away with it.
I did all my chores, ate all my vegetables and brushed my teeth twice, everyday instead of just getting the brush wet to fool my mom. I even saved her money because I didn't have any cavities on my last checkup.
Humanity was better off having known me this year and my tidings of great joy rang loud throughout the streets.
I left my little sister alone, didn't stick any jelly beans in the dogs butt and hid daddy's cigarettes so he wouldn't get cancer. He was mad but that should not have counted against me and besides, mommy said he would be able to pay his child support if he'd quit smoking three packs a day. She wasn't as concerned about the cancer part as I was, but the money seemed mighty important to her so I did what I could to help.
After all my good deeds I felt my request for a new bicycle and an Xbox were completely reasonable, yet I awoke Christmas morning to a basketball, a bucket of Lego's and an ugly sweater. Yes, I needed the socks and underwear, but still.
Anyway, I have to say I am no longer one of your biggest fans and you are no longer welcome in our home. If I see you coming down our chimney next year, and I will be waiting for you, I'll shoot you in the butt with the BB gun my daddy got me even though I'd asked to get it from you.
There will be no more milk and cookies for you, nor will there be carrots and celery for your silly little reindeer. In fact, if I hear the jingle of even one little bell, I will call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.
Believe me, I do understand the true meaning of Christmas but obviously you do not so I will clue you in on it. Every year children are bribed into behaving themselves in hopes that they will get all the toys and presents they have asked for.
We agree to sit through an hour of church on our best behavior to achieve favor in Santa's eye and to be entered into his book of life on the positive pages of naughty or nice. We will sing songs of great joy at the thought of Christmas morning when the true splendor of Christmas reveals itself in the mountain of presents pouring forth from beneath the Christmas tree.
Do you not understand what Christmas is really all about Santa? Have I not suffered enough to expect to receive that which I have asked for?
I would have thought that television, with its endless stream of commercials for toys and goodies during the four month Christmas season would have made your job a lot easier and would allow you to keep your finger on the pulse of the world's youth.
But no. I got socks.
Mom says I've missed the point of Christmas and I have to say she is about as out of touch with reality as you seem to be. What is the point of doing all this good if I don't get what I ask for?
Sincerely,
Name withheld to protect the innocent
Note from mom: My son did not get the Xbox he had asked for this past Christmas, and he actually wrote Santa a letter voicing his disappointment. I added the "true meaning of Christmas" sarcasm for effect but the incident did give me the opportunity to once again enlighten my children on the true meaning of the season.
And yes, I do realize I'm writing this in April, four months after Christmas, but that is when I found his letter stuffed in his closet. I must admit I was afraid to go into his room any sooner than necessary but my mother is visiting and I'm to expect a white glove inspection. So, I dawned my gas mask and pretended to be a responsible parent and finally cleaned my son's room.
For more from the mind of Myla Madson, go to: http://www.MylaMadson.com
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