As you may or may not be aware of, that wonderful time of year is upon us, or rather, you. Yes, that’s right, dear Claus, the time for you to finally earn your keep and work off some of those extra pounds Mrs. Claus has so cruelly heaped upon your lean-in-spirit frame over the last 11 months, has jumped around again.
It’s time once again to fatten up the reindeer, or in your case, go out to the shed and see if those ignorant brownies have kept the poor beggars alive.
(By the way, you might be interested in knowing that one of our presidents went so far as to outlaw slavery, so you better start paying those little toymakers of your something, or you are liable to have a riot situation on your hands. Now we couldn’t have that, could we? What would all the stupid brats around the world do without all those useless toys to break. Now, I ask you, would that be fair?)
I have been a good little boy, so remember me, ole Saint Nick, and I won’t tell that I saw you and Mommy kissing in the kitchen last year while Daddy was asleep in the bedroom. I also won’t tell that I knew you were so drunk last year when I sat on your lap, that your nose was as red as your suit and Vixen and Blitzen were so bombed that they tried to eat a hundred dollars’ worth of sweaters at Albin’s.
That should wrap it up, so until next year, so long.
Your loving admirer,
P.S. If that ignorant torch of a reindeer you call Rudolph shines that beacon nose of his in my bedroom window at 2 in the morning again this year, I will personally escort him on a one-way trip to the glue factory.
—Written for senior honors English class and published in the Duncan High School Demon Pitchfork, 19-Dec-1981