Let me start this editorial off simply. Your christmas wishes, miracles? Kiss them goodbye.
Grandma’s still gonna hit the bottle. Your presents will be universally disappointing, and, no, little boy, your mama ain’t getting no shoes tonight.
What do you people think I am? Where do you get off asking me, Saint Nick, to solve your shit life’s little puzzles and problems? You don’t have the money, the willpower, the self-confidence? Don’t come to me.
All year I bust my ass keeping these elves in check, cranking out another half-a-billion Bratz dolls, nutcracker this, nutcracker that. For what? So that I can make sure Tiny Tommy gets a couple galoshes for Mama’s date with Jesus?
If it’s not the elves complaining about poor iPhone materials, it’s Mrs. Claus jumping up my ass about where the reindeer do and do not drop their Christmas payloads. I’m a busy guy. This gut don’t care for itself, and if I ain’t doing leg extensions, my lap is gonna give before the mall closes.
Besides, Tommy—yes you, you little gnat—the man behind you in line has his own problems. For one: he’s not in the Christmas mood. For two: his mama’s already wormfood, and therapy doesn’t pay for itself. What makes you so special? (I hope you know that this right here is because of you. Send that one through the grapevine, and let Jesus know all the trouble we go to for his birthday.)
Long story short, getting to the point: forget about those bullshit letters, those sobbing prayers. I ain’t listening. Your christmas miracles are better off in someone else’s hands.
Why don’t you make them your own.