Idiot Writes Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I turn to you in your infinite realness because you represent the true meaning of Christmas: the presents. I've got a hankering for some cool stuff and I've been nice all year long, so you gotta hold up your end of the deal, fatso.

As for any potential red tape regarding my claim of niceness, bare in mind that I wrote that story “Down with Santa” way back in December, 2013. That was last year! Now that it's 2014, I'm operating with a clean slate and a clear conscience.

Like it or not, tubby, it's time to cram all the goodies on my wish list into that magic sack you tote. You can't spell “commercialization” without “me,” so 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. Oops! My bad on the name-drop. I didn't mean to bring up your competition.

Anyway, there's a lot more cool stuff I want from you. I think you'd better add a cup of espresso to that jug of eggnog you keep stashed in your sleigh, 'cause Santa, this is gonna take a while.

By Christmas I'll be needing a wheelbarrow-full of wool socks—and I intend to keep the wheelbarrow, of course. 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's kind of important, too. Other Christmas presents you'd better give me—OR ELSE—include an indoor hammock, a case of Miller High Life, that Andre Dawson baseball card when he was on the Cubs and sporting a jerry curl hairdo, an oil drum filled with nacho cheese, a fooseball table with secret tilt-control switches that allow me to cheat and always win, and a bar of solid gold engraved with Batman's signature.

Wait! How did I get this far into the letter without mentioning 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 am a law-abiding man of integrity! If you must know, I'll be wishing for that copy of Playboy from 1996 with Jenny McCarthy on the cover, a gun (any kind will do, but unregistered is strongly preferred), and a million dollars-worth of the finest and most dangerous fireworks ever made in America.

And while we're on the subject of wishes, could you put in a good word for me at the Make-a-Wish Foundation? I pray it doesn't happen, but if I get terribly sick, it would be a relief to know that at least I'd get to meet Aaron Rodgers, or even the chick who played the cheerleader on Saved by the Bell, as a solid fallback option.

Let's see... what else? Oh! Playstation controllers. Give me, like, a hundred of those. I want to make sure I have enough, 'cause when things don't go my way, I like to smash 'em. It's cathartic, you know? A hundred Playstation controllers is all I ask, along with all the other cool stuff.

Speaking of which, can you also bestow me with the Ferrari from Scent of a Woman, 50 square feet of additional space in my apartment (to be completed by no later than Boxing Day), and some matching bullets for the gun I'll be getting from that genie? You'd better respond with a jolly “Yes, indeed!” If not, I'll have no choice but to finally convert to Judaism. So help me Santa, if you fail me, I'm going to title my next December story “Santa's a Gordo Schmuck.”

If I could make another addition to my queue, I want Hollywood to produce another Rocky movie, and Santa, you're the overweight man who's gonna pull those strings to make that dream a reality. Can you believe they've only done six Rocky's so far?! I say keep 'em coming. You can't spell “public” without an “I,” and I demand another Rocky installment. Oh, and I want Rocky's next opponent to be the Predator, and I think it would be super-dramatic if the referee was played by Mr. T. Consult me for any script changes or casting problems, especially if Mr. T asks for too much money.

I suppose the only other items on my list that you absolutely must give me—that is, unless you want another Dreidel-spinner on your hands—would have to 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 Extra Sweet Watermelon gum, a two-hour singing telegram from Sir Paul McCartney, and the original stone tablets that list the Ten Commandments.

I mention this last one because, if I don't get everything I want from you, Santa, I will be forced to search for answers elsewhere, and those answers might not have anything to do with material possessions. Heck, those answers could involve a spirit that is priceless and immaterial, a positive attitude we share with our community, and an appreciation for the loved ones who give our lives so much purpose and support. Golly, maybe I've had it all backwards sending you these demanding letters since I was a first grader up until my current age of 31. Perhaps I should cut you some slack and trim my requests down to the wool socks, the EZ Bake Oven, and the Rocky movie, and focus on making other people happy this Christmas...

It's a tough call... I'm torn 'cause I still like cool stuff! Tell you what: I should sleep on it. Mind you, I'm leaning toward doing the right thing here, Santa, but if I don't, I'll be so extreme in celebrating your commercialized Christmas that I'll check out how much I could get for those sweet Commandment-tablets on eBay.

Sorry about all the fat jokes (even if they're true).

Your Fully Grown Believer,

Nick

More on Santa: A Message to My Nephew

I had a column ready for print, but before it got a chance to reach that stage, the newspaper (which endured but never quite flourished) went under. The loss of two graphic designers and a general sense of apathy seemed likely causes. The column, which is merely on this blog and nowhere else, is titled “Down with Santa.”


To further explain my anti-Santa stance, and backpedal on it a   tad--since I do enjoy smiling children (especially my nephew) and the causes of their smiles--I decided to do a sequel to "Down with Santa," and this one is not as Scrooge-like because I don't aspire to become too much of a grouch, or—God forbid—an ultimate grouch: a curmudgeon.

It's just that I can't get past the notion of lying to kids in order to give them cheer. That's a puzzling tradition to me, and when I encounter things I don't understand—which is just about everything—I ask questions and crack jokes.

For instance, does part of the fun of Christmas revolve around the fact that kids are gullible? Generations ago, was the mythology started by some rascally dad who fed spontaneous nonsense to his children purely to see if they'd accept it as the truth?

And did he, by chance, talk it over with his wife later?

“Guess what, dear? I told Susie there's a jolly fat man in a sleigh led by flying reindeer who delivers presents to millions of people across the globe on Christmas Eve. And here's the best part: She bought it! Ha!”

I bought the fib, too, but when I found out the truth, I got distraught. It felt like a cruel prank. My seventeenth birthday was ruined.

Just kidding.

Anyway, I realize that kids really get a kick a out of their imaginations, and it's a shame how adults forget what that's like; in fact, that's part of the reason they tell kids about Santa in the first place: to relive that wonder.

And even though I've shown no inclinations for fatherhood in my 20s, I've lucked into becoming an uncle, and I feel a great sense of loving duty for my nephew. The father/ uncle dynamic is as Batman-to-Robin as they come, but any time I'm needed for an assist, I want to be there to fight the crimes this world may have in store for my nephew.

Furthermore, since I'm pretty sure my brother and sister-in-law will indulge my nephew in the Santa mythology, I have no right to be a Scrooge about it. For his sake, I'll go along with the Santa malarkey for as long as required.

I do have a message for him, however, after he has learned the truth—from his parents, friends, self, or whomever. When I catch wind of his enlightenment, this is the message I'll send him.

Hey Buddy,

If you're reading this, that means you no longer believe in Santa. I hope you don't feel disillusioned about it all like I did. Your mom and dad were mainly trying to grant you joy and excitement, to get your mind  marveling about this life, and while what they told you was not 100% honest, when you're my age, you'll find that discovering the false nature of Santa is far from the worst thing that could happen.

Now that you know about Santa, I think you're old and mature enough to be let in on a few other fibs Uncle Nick either participated in or started. Are you sitting down, pal? You should.

You know that unicorn stable I've told you so much about but never brought you to? Well, that doesn't really exist, either. Those pictures I gave you from time to time of me on a jet-pack feeding deep dish pizza to my airborne unicorns were photo-shopped. I still think you're very smart, but to be honest, I'm kind of surprised you didn't call “Bull-crap” on Uncle Nick last Thanksgiving.

To come clean about another fib involving air-travel, I don't actually own a gigantic gumdrop hovercraft that disappears whenever I say the magic words. That was not the truth, and I told you otherwise because I wanted you to think I was a really cool uncle. In reality, I generally get from point A-to-B in a Honda Accord.

Finally, I was not captured by leprechauns who spun me around in a swivel chair for hours until they finally believed me when I said I didn't know where their gold was hidden when I acted funny at that family get-together. Truthfully, it was St. Patrick's Day and I got awfully drunk. Heck, aside from the designated driver whose identity I can't recall, we all did. Also, those leprechauns I mentioned are fictional, and the same goes for both dragons and my brief yet lusty marriage to that actress who played the Catwoman...but if it makes you feel any better, the jury's still out on Bigfoot.

Sorry. These fibs adults tell tend to snowball on us all. Please don't be mad at me. When you were a year old, because your cheeks were puffy with flesh and inflated with glee, I took to calling you “Chubby Cheekers.” By the time you were two, though, you got to be so word-savvy and verbal that I had to retire that nickname—out of fear that I might hurt your feelings.

The point is, I had to change as you got older. We had to change. It's all around us and unavoidable, and at the risk of sounding like too much of an optimist, 51% of the time, it's for the better.

You're a lot different than you were when I sometimes called you Chubby Cheekers, but my God, your ample jawline was proof that you were as jolly as Santa Claus, and you're still jolly to me. You so often bring a smile to my face and I can think of no finer way to define jolliness.

And, unlike the gumdrop hovercraft, that's no fib. It's the truth.

Love,

Uncle Nick