Dear Santa,
I turn to you in your infinite realness because I have a hankering for some gnarly shit. I've been nice all year long. I’m exhausted and ready for my reward. So you gotta hold up your end of the deal, Kringle.
You may be surprised to receive this letter. Am I the same kid in his late-30s who published the story “Down with Santa”? Yeah, I have a naughty past. So what? Didn’t you used to smack around orphans with a stick in Germany or something like that? Well, I forgive you for that. Return the favor, big man. People change. They deserve second chances. Sometimes they stop believing in Santa, then much later in life, they go back to believing in Santa. They remember that you give presents on the most awesome holiday. Cool. I write to you with a clean conscience and I want some gnarly shit.
Like it or not, it's time to cram all the goodies on my wish list into that magic sack of yours. (I’m not even gonna giggle at that sentence because that would be naughty.) I’m feeling nice and materialistic, tubbs. You can't spell “commercialization” without “me.” For starters, gimme a Hoverboard.
Yes, a Hoverboard! And not one of those crummy Hoverboards that can only go on land. I want to float above that water. Not unlike Jesus. Ooh, my bad! I didn't mean to bring up your competition.
Let’s get back to the presents. You better dump the eggnog and switch to coffee, 'cause Santa, this is gonna take a while.
By Christmas I'll be needing a wheelbarrow-full of wool socks--and I’ll be keeping the wheelbarrow. Priority one is not freezing to death this winter. Actually, I take that back. The Hoverboard is priority one, but the wool socks and not getting frostbite and dying—that kinda matters, too.
Other presents you’ll be giving me—OR ELSE—include an indoor hammock, a case of Pabst, that Andre Dawson baseball card when he was sporting a jerry curl on the Cubs, an oil drum filled with nacho cheese, a foosball table with secret tilt-control switches that let me cheat to win, and a bar of solid gold engraved with Batman's signature.
Wait! How did I make it this far without listing EZ Bake Ovens? Put me down for five.
I'd like to add a genie lamp to my order. Don't worry, I won't be asking for infinite wishes. That's bush league. I have integrity, OK? I'll be wishing for a million-dollars worth of the deadliest fireworks ever made in America, a gun (any kind will do, but I prefer unregistered), and more confidence if I’m never going to be tall.
Speaking of wishes, could you put in a good word for me at the Make-a-Wish Foundation? Santa forbid, but if I get terribly sick, it’d be a relief to at least meet Aaron Rodgers. Or the hot cheerleader from Saved by the Bell, in case AaRo is booked.
Let's see, what else? Oh! Playstation controllers. Give me, like, a hundred. Can’t have enough of those. When a game frustrates me, I like to smash the controllers. It's cathartic, you know? A hundred Playstation controllers is all I ask for in this paragraph.
In this paragraph, I demand the Ferrari from Scent of a Woman, 200 square feet of space added to my apartment (to be finished no later than Boxing Day), and some bullets for the gun I'll be getting from that genie. You need to respond with a jolly “Yes, indeed!” If not, I'll have no choice but to convert to Judaism. So help me Santa, if you fail me, I'll write a story called “Santa: What a Schmuck.”
If I may click the plus-sign again in your cart, I want Hollywood to produce another Rocky movie. Santa, you're the overweight man who's gonna make that dream a reality. Can you believe they've only done eight Rocky’s?! I say keep 'em coming. I’ve got ideas. I want Rocky to fight the Predator. And it would be super-dramatic if the ref was played by Mr. T. Consult me for any script changes or casting problems--especially if Mr. T asks for too much money.
I guess the only other things on my list that you absolutely must give me--unless you want another Dreidel-spinner on your hands--would be a rock from the moon that I could sell on eBay, a Segway with a big plow attached to it, a lifetime's supply of Twix Ice Cream Bars, a two-hour singing telegram from Sir Paul McCartney, and the original stone tablets of the Ten Commandments.
I mention this last one because, if I don't get everything I want from you, I’ll be forced to search for answers elsewhere. Those answers might have nothing to do with possessions...
Heck, you know something? Those answers might involve a spirit that is priceless and immaterial. Or a positive attitude we share with our community. Or gratitude for the loved ones who keep us going. Golly, maybe I've got it backwards, sending you a list of demands when I’m getting close to 40, for fuck’s sake. Maybe I should cut you some slack. I could trim my demands down to wool socks, five EZ Bake Ovens, and the Rocky movie, and focus on making other people happy this Christmas.
It's a tough call... I'm torn because I still like gnarly shit! Tell you what: I’ll sleep on it. Mind you, I'm leaning toward doing the right thing here, heavyweight champ, but if I wind up doing the wrong thing, I’m gonna sell the Ten Commandments to the highest bidder on the dark web.
OK, bye for now. I promise I won’t make fun of your weight in next year’s letter.
Your Fully Grown Believer,
Nick
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