Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I think we need to talk. Your fat jolly ass is really becoming a pain in mine. In order to keep up the ruse of you existing and all, I am somewhat being held hostage to a toddler's demands. You see, whenever we enter the holy land that is Target nowadays, every awesome shiny thing up in there becomes something we should, "ask Santa for". And if I don't pony up said shiny things from "Santa" on Christmas day, my daughter's childhood will be ruined and she will be doomed to a life of working the pole. All because of you. Well, Santa, your ass owes me money. A lot of money. And I am booking a flight straight to the North Pole to collect.

You see, Santa, we both know that you are a deadbeat mythical figure, but my doe-eyed toddler doesn't. She thinks that you are all magical and shit and that you can fart cookie monster keyboards and Barbie dolls. I, on the other hand, know that you are a just another way for our kids to milk us for even more plastic crap under the guise of "holiday spirit". I am just lucky that my kids don't know the wonder of the iPod touch or Wii U yet. Now that is some naughty shit, Santa.

Also, because you are too lazy to make an appearance more than one day a year (DIVA!), you hire alcoholic homeless men to sit in fancy chairs and act like they are you at malls all over the world. Seriously? You couldn't find a few guys with white beards who didn't smell like a mix of sewer water and Mad Dog 20/20 to play you? Every time my daughter sits on one of their laps I have to hose her off with a bath of penicillin when we are done. Gross.

And, it is so not cool that you sit at the North Pole all year, getting shitfaced with elves while I am stuck here at home doing your slave labor. Not only do you not make any lists, let alone check them twice, but you also don't shop for or pay for any of the items requested by the boys and girls on said list. But, come December 25, your overweight ass sure does shimmy down my chimney, eat all of my cookies and pop back out just so you can take all the credit.

What the fuck, Santa? I had to drive all over God's green earth and Toys "R" Us just to procure that limited edition doll house that my toddler just HAD to ask you for, and you can't even cough up the change to pay for it? But I have to say it was from you? That is some bullshit. You must have some kind of airtight union contract that allows you to sit back and reap all the benefits of gift giving while us drones at home do all the manual labor.

In closing: suck it, Santa. I want my money back. Oh yeah, and can I have a pony? I have always wanted one of those.


Smooches,

The Beer Bitch


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