Dear Santa Claus,
Or Kris Kringle. Or Saint Nicholas. Or Father Christmas. Or Fatty McChristmastime. Or whatever you’re calling yourself these days.
You may remember me. I wrote you a letter every year until I was nine and Angela Marcus told me you weren’t real while we used sticks to write cuss words in the mud during recess. But now that I’m an adult with apparently very little self-control, I’ve developed a new belief – a rebelief, if you will.
It occurred to me that there are a lot of benefits to believing in your existence. For instance…
Who ate all of the cookies in the house? You did, fatty.
Who spilt milk all over the carpet and never cleaned it up so now smells like mold and death? Definitely you.
Who broke some shingles while climbing on the roof and caused the ceiling in the living room to leak year-round? You and your hoodrat reindeer.
Who stuffed stockings with the dog’s used poop bags as a joke? You, you sick weirdo.
Who made a list of people I know and titled it “Assholes Who Aren’t Getting Shit For Christmas” and sent it to my entire list of contacts? You did, Santa. (By the way, you might want to chill on the whole “making a list” thing because you know who else made lists? Nazis. Yeah.)
Who stole the blow up reindeer from the neighbor’s yard in the middle of the night and took weird, disturbing pictures with it? Ho, ho, yep, you again.
Who got drunk at the office holiday party and danced like an idiot while coworkers caught it all on video? You, obviously.
Basically, if something bad happens in the month of December, it’s not my fault – it’s your fault, Santa. You own this bullshit month and it’s time you started taking responsibility for my actions!
So here’s the deal. I’m not going to give you a laundry list of what I want for Christmas (a purse made out of dinosaur skin, diamond earrings the size of my fist, a miniature pony that turns into a beautiful unicorn when I sprinkle sparkly dust on him), but I will believe that you exist. However, this time, the tables are turned. That’s right. You don’t have the upper hand in this relationship anymore, you fat judgmental bastard. Now you exist because I need someone to blame for all the stupid shit I do.
p.s. The chimney is busted at my house (which is also your chunky butt’s fault) so please use the front door when you deliver my gifts. Kthnxbai!
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