Letters From Santa

 

 

Jake,

I don’t know what it means to give you “experiences” over “things.” Enjoy the football. 

Regards,

Kris Kringle

 

Donna,

Sorry, but I can’t just make you an influencer. I can however include a bottle of my limited-edition spirit, Santa’s Frozen Whiskey. Naturally cold so you never need to order on the rocks. Click on the QR code to learn more about the distilling process. You’re over 21, right? 

Talk soon,

KK

 

Mark,

Unfortunately, international laws against human trafficking prohibit me from gifting you an actual elf. In any case, he wouldn’t even arrive in time. However, I can have one of my trusted advisors call you on FaceTime X-mas eve. Next best thing, I believe.

Merry Christmas,

Santa

 

Jon,

Yes, of course I’ve eaten reindeer before. 

Bon appetit,

 “Chef” Claus

 

Cora,

I started dying my beard in my early thirties. 

Thanks,

SC

 

Thad,

If I’m going to send you Bitcoin, I need an account number.

Best,

Sa. Cl.

 

Benji,

It doesn’t make you an “evil capitalist pig” to want a few toys for Christmas. 

thx,

Satan Claus

 

Catherine

I’ll tell Rudolph you said hi. And Mrs. Claus's first name is actually "Missus."

Sincerely,

Mister Claus

Barry,

My family anglicized “Kringle” sometime around the turn of the twentieth century, from the Russian Kringlekov. 

Obediently yours,

Yakov Kringlekov

 

Dear Plagiary

 

I’m not a crook. And now it is time to make the real promises of democracy. We have had our failures, but so have others, even if they do not admit them. And they may be less public. But in a larger sense, I cannot dedicate, I cannot consecrate, I cannot hallow this ground. I do not plan in any way to whitewash my sin. I do not call it a mistake, a mendacity; I call it sin. It is important to me that everybody who has been hurt know that the sorrow I feel is genuine. First and most important, my family; also my friends, my staff, my cabinet, Monica Lewinsky and her family, and the American people. I have asked all for their forgiveness.

 

In closing, I’d like to end of my own original quote, “It’s not a lie if you believe it.”

 

And, last but not least, thank you for letting me be myself, again. 

 

Do Your Part

 

It can be a great struggle to make sense of this topsy-turvy world. Thankfully, I’ve catalogued a helpful list of small things anyone can do to make a difference. While the following may feel insignificant, ineffectual, and utterly pointless, don’t let logic get in the way of a subtle act of protest. Incredibly, it usually involves dining. 

 

When ordering a Reuben sandwich, hold the Russian dressing out of solidarity with the people of Ukraine.

 

What the people of Gaza need is for you to abstain from grabbing Israeli salad during your lunch break.

English muffins usually raise colonial concerns, much in the same way a traditional Irish breakfast alludes to balaclava wearing thugs setting up illegal roadblocks. 

 

German potato salad recalls a more troubling time for the world. 

 

Chili, though spelled differently, for both the blind and the illiterate (two growing constituencies), it connotes images of Pinochet’s authoritarian regime. 

 

This may not seem like much, but words matter. Especially when they’re on food-stained menus. 

Up In Smoke

 

I tend not to subscribe to conspiracy theories, unless there’s a simple way to avoid auto renewal. A year is about all I can take subjecting myself to a daily barrage of fever dreams and wacky beliefs. 

But there is one I am gradually moving towards. It’s that the best way to clean up political corruption is to outlaw cigarettes. Think of how many important decisions have been made by shadowy figures inside smoke filled rooms. The smoke obscures their identity and gives them literal cover from watering eyes. Smoking is part of any good cabal, which makes removing it risky to the natural order of things. 

Vaping, while marginally healthier, does not provide these backroom bureaucrats enough plausible smoke to hide. Where are the shadows that figure into their grand plans? They might smell like a scented candle, but the little light on the end is a homing beacon for all to see. 

Whoever chooses the next president will have to do it from somewhere other than a vape filled room. There’s something strangely comforting about the fate of the world being left to dark overlords with yellow fingernails and cigarette breath. Makes them seem vaguely human. 

Just Floating an Idea

 

 

The older I get, the more I seem to have come to an appreciation for really great marketing ideas. It’s probably because I’ve had more than my fair share. What can be really difficult is separating the wheat from the chaff, or good ideas from great ideas. Some people use white boards or index cards, or keep everything stored up inside screaming to come out. 

 

However, my time-honored technique dates back centuries. Though, it’s original purpose was not to benefit advertising, the principles are very much the same. 

 

Back in the olden days, say pre-Internet sometime, when someone was first accused of practicing witchcraft without a license, it was understood that such an allegation could not go uninvestigated. What you’d do is tie them up and toss them into a body of water, watching whether they sink or float. If they float, they’re a witch. If they sink, they’re dead, but not a witch. Clear consciences all around. 

 

Besides being a good way to determine supernatural abilities, it was also quite entertaining. Which is precisely why I’ve updated it to fit the complicated world of modern advertising. When I come across a potentially great idea, there is only one thing to do. Write the idea down on a piece of paper and tie it to the chest of the person staking their career and reputation on it. Then tossing them into the Hudson River, a temperamental tidal estuary only a few blocks from my office. First of all, it’s convenient. Secondly, when floating an idea out there, it’s important to actually float it. 

What this does is prevent people from engaging in freewheeling spit balling, where “everything is on the table.” Knowing that they might have to fend off large container ships in the middle of the New York harbor would make even the most careless creative director think twice.

Scameo

 

Why hello there. Or should I say bonjour? You're in Paris, right? I'm not in Paris. But I am a fading, middling celebrity devoid of shame and self-awareness. I’ll gladly debase myself in the hopes of getting your approval and hard-earned cash. I’ll say anything you want me to say. Because I don’t believe in humiliation when money is involved. I will joke about past, present and possibly future scandals. I will employ my famous catchphrase either seriously or ironically, depending on what you’d like. I will wish a happy birthday to a pet iguana. And I’ll prepare for each video call by reading your request on the spot. Ready? You gotta pay up front, I don’t do anything on spec. Especially now that I've given up on the arts.  

A fat cat on fat cats

All day, every day, (the parts I’m awake), I’m fielding requests to comment on politics. Journalists want me to give a few soundbites on the state of congress. I used to be flattered, move that someone wanted to listen to my opinion on a subject besides kitty litter. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve had to explain the dangers the average toilet seat poses to your typical house cat.

I said I was flattered, because I quickly figured out that it was nothing more than a crude joke. What they wanted was a fat cat to talk on fat cats. These pols have done something I’ve never dreamed of – gone a day without washing themselves. I’ve never seen a dime from a Senator, congressional page, or the damn gardener. 

Presidents talk about their pet dogs. Turkeys on pardoned on Thanksgiving. Donkeys and elephants get decent press every election cycle. The truth is that “fat cat” as a term is a deeply hurtful slur. I don’t mind being fat or a cat, what I mind is being lumped in with the barely coherent husks shuffling through the capitol building. I don’t like being associated – even in passing – with the craven lobbyists and cynical operators chugging martinis in Dupont Circle.

Time’s have changed. Many phrases that were once acceptable are no longer kosher. Why not fat cat? I guess because we don’t have a constituency. Who am I kidding? I don’t care. In the end, I know I’m better than them. A cat’s greatest asset is his sense of superiority. Not that it’s particularly hard when compared to Washington doofuses. 

My Writer's Block

I’m a wordsmith. People I know, trust, and owe a great deal of money often ask me, “what’s a wordsmith?” That and, “is it the same thing as a writer?” A wordsmith is something far different. Writers write while wordsmiths smith words. 

They ask, “smithing words, what’s that? Sounds expensive.” It can be, which is why I rely on the generosity and financial liquidity of close friends and strangers. I would never lend someone I didn’t trust money. But I would receive money from more or less anyone. Back to smithing. The first thing you’ll need is anvil and a very large hammer. Writing a sentence is not something you can do in a vacuum, unless it’s big enough to fit your laptop, notebook, power cord, plus the aforementioned anvil and hammer. 

I have been known to pound the spine of a dictionary until I discover the perfect word. Not sure how many times you've tried reading the thing. I can tell you from experience, it doesn't work. Like a smithing, it involves heating, cooling, dirty goggles and a flame-retardant apron. Yes, of course I have the calluses to prove it. 

Construction workers and laborers rightfully accuse many writers of being dainty, sheltered souls. Not me though. Especially with the forging I do between a testy preposition and a run-on sentence. I work with my hands, much like a sanitation worker or licensed masseuse. And like both, I help people, despite frequently smelling like garbage. 

The harsh pounding required to smith a word can go on for hours, sometimes days. It’s why I don’t ever get writer’s block, though I do own several writers’ blocks. The anvils, remember them? Perfect inspiration or sharpening a scimitar. You never know which one you'll need first. 

Oil Man

 

I have been working hard to rebrand myself as an “oil man.” The problem is that most people have outlandish notions about what an “oil man” should look and act like. They ask where my Stetson is and wonder if I wear cowboy boots on the subway. They scoff at my decided lack of twang. I can’t seem to get past the idea that to be an oil man is to be a strutting goober in a bolo tie.

I want to take this opportunity to change all that. Allow me to humbly introduce an alternate and much-needed definition of “oil man” into the lexicon. 

After switching from fries as a dining default, I found myself confronted with another dilemma. What happens when you say, “yes, I have a salad.” If only the choices ended there. Not so. Immediately you’re hit with a sonic barrage: Russian, ranch, blue cheese, vinaigrette, creamy Italian and on and on. Like a stale crouton, many crack under the pressure. This should be a simple transaction. I want a salad. Condiments are for other dishes, not ones this green and lustrous. 

I preface the confrontation with, “I’m an oil man. Extra virgin, not Texan.” That usually takes a few seconds to register before they nod and return with a small bottle. Because dressing is for wild game, not salads.  

Scientists Still Unable to Explain Andy Borowitz’s Career

 

SWITZERLAND

In an undisclosed location outside of Bern, a team of the brightest minds came to a conclusion, which many experts had been expecting for some time now; that the comedy career of Andy Borowitz defies simple logic and basic scientific principles. The team had searched for decades trying to ascertain what explained the writer’s inexplicable appeal. Their hard work yielded little in the way of clear answers. 

However, the research was not without its minor discoveries. One breakthrough a few years ago focused on Borowitz’s ability to push the boundaries of humor. Not in the sense of edginess or irreverence, but by expanding the definition of comedy itself. He was able to take jokes to a place where few were able to see it as a joke. This transformative style of satire is unequaled, except for perhaps a straight reading of the phone book. Then there was his platform. The team experimented by replacing the famous New Yorker typeface with a sans-serif font like “Calibri” to see if it had the same impact. It didn’t. Though it did seem to cure insomnia in a majority of participants. 

The team hit many dead ends when it discovered that many of his columns were indistinguishable from news columns and blogs. He found a professional goldilocks zone – not too smart, not too funny, and never too long. How he did that exactly? They never found out.

A constant source of frustration was the dearth of volunteers. As the years went on, it can be harder and harder to entice people to devote an hour or two to analyzing The Borowitz Report. One possible answer can be found in the first syllable of his last name. In a sense, humor requires only a furrowed brow or a slight smile. Laughing isn't necessary. 

Plenty of life’s biggest questions remain mysterious and unknowable. Because when you aren’t in on the joke, there’s a good chance you are the joke.

Hall without Oates

Dynamic duos have long been a part of civilization. Too bad it’s such a rocky relationship when the two people can’t work out their differences. Sometimes, they start as running buddies and end up in court – or worse. So no one should be surprised that these two singers finally decided to grab separate microphones. Since this is a tale as old as time.

Long before Simon left Garfunkel, there was another singing couple with a big future and enough mutual animus and jealousy to last several millennia. You have to go back to biblical times, and given that it’s the holiday season, it seems fitting to do so.

Lots of people know how the story of Cain and Abel ended, but very few know how it started. It began in coffeehouses just outside of Eden, since you couldn’t serve anything stronger than a glass of ice water inside the garden. Cain and Abel were old folkies, the first harmonizing brothers. Paving the way for the Isleys, the Louvins, and the Wilsons. 

Like many groups, things started out well enough. Passing around the hat. The trouble was finding and sustaining a following. There weren’t a lot of people on earth besides their parents. They couldn’t find an audience. With most groups, it comes down to songwriting credit and top billing. Cain and Abel were no different. Abel wanted to see if he could find some footing as a solo artist, but Cain, the less talented of the two, had no interest in breaking up.

So when it comes to Hall and Oates, the end could certainly be much worse. At least they got about fifty years of hits before calling it quits. Today, tomorrow, or several thousand years in the past, it always comes down to one thing: ego. 

Holiday News Flash

 

Anyone who knows me knows that ever since my road test at seventeen, I have honed an unparalleled defensive driving tool. Namely, the marriage of honking and high beams, or, what I like to call, “thunder and lightning.” For the purposes of today, I will focus on the lightning part, even though the car horn, not the cello, should have been my chosen musical instrument way back when. 

 

During the holiday season, harsh criticism is usually reserved for the nonstop carols polluting every public space. But songs are a fundamental part of the Christmas spirit. Do I need to hear Jingle Bell Rock seven times a day? Maybe not. However, my beef is with displays, not nativity ones, but specifically those with flashing lights. There is nothing illuminating about inducing a seizure. Though the frothing of the mouth can be reminiscent of an overflowing glass of eggnog. Flashing lights are meant to get someone’s attention during an emergency, help land a plane, or check for survivors buried in a collapsed mine shaft. But they should not be a part of Christmas. 

 

You want lights? Get lights. Clean, stable, and non-flashing ones. The only acceptable flashing is if it’s solely the result of flickering candles. While this exponentially increases the risk of a house fire, at least it’s done so without putting any undue stress on the electrical grid. Not only that, flashing as a concept conjures up images of trench coats and nothing else. If I wanted to see something flashing, I would whittle away the workday staring at animated GIFs of Rudolph’s blinking schnozz. 

 

I thought the appeal of flashing lights wax extinguished during the Saturday morning heyday of Dragon Ball Z and its epileptic legacy. Looks like I was wrong. 

Eh I

 

Technology has come so far, so fast. It seems like just yesterday that we were sitting on our hands, waiting patiently as early Internet pages barely materialized after minutes of buzzing and beeping from a dial-up modem. But the AI revolution is something else entirely. Many so-called humanists have forsaken their closest friends for purer screen companionship with certain chatbots that shall remain faceless. Not nameless though – I bet you can guess that. 

My reluctance to jump in was a result of cautiousness. That’s changed with the advent of Eh I. I no longer have to fake it when someone asks me to explain the difference between bacon and Canadian bacon. I now have assistance when explaining the events that led to Gordon Lightfoot’s success. I can speak extemporaneously on why SCTV has sturdier legacy than the decomposing behemoth that is SNL.

Being Canadian is profound, but as an American I could ever get so close to it. The music of Neil Young, the iconography of a cartoon moose, and the real estate rantings by sore losers after another presidential election doesn’t go their way. Canada is so close, yet so far. But now, with Eh I, we can finally relate to our quirky friends to the north with real slang and authentic pop culture references. 

Shameless George

With lackluster figures polluting the halls of congress, George Santos somehow rose above the fray like a vintage parade float. I’ll miss the man and his unusual blend of tight-fitting sweaters, steely indignation, and good yarns. Like Christ, he’s about to enter the wilderness. But if anyone can reinvent himself it’s the Picasso of prevarication. Shamelessness and creativity will serve him well, in Hollywood or on his tax return. What’s next? A late-night show, a televised two-step with imploding stars, or a tell-all book. Liberty is our nation’s founding principle. What’s wrong with taking a few along the way?