Dear Ade,

I’m sorry if it took me two years to reply to that last letter you sent me. Thanks for asking about Rudolph, though. He got out of his coma quite quickly. In fact, he’s having great progress with his therapist. He now cries himself to sleep only intermittently. And his tic isn’t all that noticeable anymore.

As for me and the elves, we’re buried up to the neck making cheap rip-offs of this season’s latest toy. For kids. Get it? I exist for KIDS. Not for overweight internet writers in their mid-20s who specialize in “The Art of Dick Jokes.” Be thankful I even got to read your email in the first place. Stop resending the damn thing. You do realize that you’ve been sending the same email in triplicate for the last two years, haven’t you?

Honestly though, I’m at a loss as to what to give for these damn kids. Back then it was “Santa gimme a Tickle-Me-Elmo” or “Santa gimme a pony” or “Santa I want the Immature Radioactive Kung-Fu Warthog special super-action edition” or “Santa gimme a rainbow unicorn.”

But nooooo, the economic meltdown had to come along. And now it’s “Santa, we were kicked out of the house last Thursday and we’re living under a bridge. Please give our family a new house or we’ll freeze to death like gramma” or “Santa, my dad was fired. His boss is a very evil man. Nothing would make me happier than to see him die and his bones crushed into fine dust. Love, Dustin, Age 7.”

So yeah. Imagine that, Ade. I’m at a loss here, trying to deal with things that I never signed up for. I give away toys, fer Chrissakes, not economic doleouts. And as if I don’t have enough to deal with, you come up to me, whining that I haven’t given you anything other than lint. Well, BOO-FUCKING-HOO. You see, Ade, LINT IS AWESOME. The lint I put in your stocking came from a very special place: my belly button.

Also, I have a small complaint about the cookies you leave for me every year:

Dick Cookie

Mrs. Santa loves them, though.

As for the Dora Aquapet that you wanted: one of the elves ran off with it aaaaaand used it ways I’d rather not elaborate on. That’s why I had to take drastic measures and put an embargo on all things phallic here in the North Pole.

Speaking of Mrs. Santa, you still have some ativan left? Mrs. Santa’s being such a prissy bitch again.

Yours in all things Christmassy and all that jazz,
Santa Claus

P.S.
YOU’RE the asshole.