February 9, 2010
Christmas is 319 (or 318, or 317, or 316… depends on when you read this. You get the idea) days away. And while that seems like a long time, it will creep up on us faster than blowflies on a dead raccoon (but hey, you can make meatloaf out of it).
Anyway, I have decided to write my letter to Santa early, so the fat, jolly man can get a head start on making my wishes come true. I’m a planner like that. Plus? I’m demanding and want everything on my list.
Here’s my letter:
I think I’ve been a good girl this year. Sure, it’s only February, but I’m not planning any naughtiness unless you count ringing my neighbor’s doorbell and running away as she opens the door with only her ratty blue nightgown on and her hair in a crappy ponytail with mascara streaked down her face as she holds a bottle of beer in her hand. That’s all in fun – hardly naughty. Anyway, as it stands, I’m gonna be a damn fine little princess. So? I think you should fulfill my wish list. While some things on it may seem unobtainable, I’m sure you can make it happen. I mean hello? YOU ARE SANTA FUCKING CLAUS.
First, I need you to make Octomom go away. No, I’m not asking you to kill her. That request would certainly put me on the naughty list and/or jail and besides, who would look after her 76 children? Oh, right. The nannies. But still. I’m not saying kill her, just make her go away. If I have to see her ridiculously bad photo-shopped bikini photos one more time, I’ll punch you in your fat gut and vomit in your shiny black boots. Yes, see? You’ll be the one paying the price if she stays around. She’s a lying, narcissistic fame whore who thinks the rest of us are sitting around drooling over her tummy tuck I just ate veggies and worked out at midnight while my babies were sleeping to get these abs kind of body and when I see her fish lips move, it makes me slightly insane. Please take her back to the North Pole with you. She can feed your reindeer.
I’d like a Hummer. I do have a SUV but a Hummer is bigger SUV than what I currently have. Why do I need a bigger SUV? Duh. To run over the bitches that try to cut me off while driving or run stop signs and then give me the finger. The hell? Oh no you di’int. And while I can technically run over those crazy bitches, with a Hummer, there would be way less damage to my vehicle. Yes. It’s all about me. I’m cute like that.
I’d like a new pair of sharp, shiny scissors. You know, for shanking. I like a clean, perfect shanking and with dull scissors, you don’t get that. Make them pink, please.
I’d like you to eradicate all stupid people. Start with the woman who works at the grocery store who constantly spews her stupid. Her stupid is so stupid it wants to stab itself in the stupid face. And honestly, doesn’t this make me very selfless? I mean people will love me if all the stupid people are gone. They’ll be all like, ohmygosh! you asked Santa to get rid of all the stupid people, we love you! See? Win-win situation for everyone.
A bag of money. Oh come on now, I’ve helped get rid of all the stupid people… I deserve a big bag of money. Like a huge bag of money. Huge money. Lotsa money. Make it happen, you jolly old soul.
Burn all the Snuggies. Seriously, dude. Snuggies are redonkulous. It’s a fucking robe worn backward. It is. Just look at it. And I’d like you to to ho-ho-ho punch all the people who buy their loved ones a Snuggie. Really? What kind of asshat are you if you purchase someone you care about, a Snuggie? I’d rather have Vince the Slap Chop dude sprinkle his nuts on my ice cream cone. Anything is better than a Snuggie. And now? There are Snuggies for dogs. The fuck? No. Burn the Snuggies. I know you can do it, Santa. You’ve got people. Or elves. Whatever. Same difference.
Drop the guy at the post office a note that lets him know when he talks to me as I’m purchasing a stamp, I’d prefer if he looked at my face. My face is not down my shirt. Tell him that his slyness is so not working. He’s about as subtle as Miss Piggy and twice as annoying.
Boots. You know what I like.
Please don’t let Paris Hilton become a mom. Is that wrong of me? OK, at least not until she matures. I mean really, she’s only 28, just a mere child with a wonky eye.
Tell Kanye West he’s annoying. Put coal in his stocking. Explain to him that most people think he’s a big, whiny douchenozzle. Make him understand.
Boots. Did I mention I want boots? A few pair. Heels. Thigh-highs. Ankle.
I’d like Russell Hantz to win Survivor: Heroes vs Villains. Not that Russell needs Santa to help him out, but still. I want him to win.
In closing, I’d like to thank you in advance, Santa. I know you won’t want to disappoint me because I’ve been a good girl (see opening paragraph) and a lot of my wishes will help others, not just me, so that makes me awesomesauce, right? Right.
I promise to leave you your favorite cookies and a big glass of milk (I may get hungry while waiting for you, and in that event, you can just get your own damn cookies and milk. You know where to find them). I’ll just ask you to take off your snow-covered boots before tramping across my hardwood floors.
Thank you, Santa.