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.