Yes, you, Santa, the man in red with the belly bursting out of your suit, the laughter that is practically trademarked and the rosy cheeks from too much exertion after eating junk food. You. I have a bone to pick with you.
Look, jolly dude, I am getting tired of not being on your payroll. You owe me big time. I am so busy doing things for you, and I am getting sick of not getting any of the accolades.
You need to cough up some dough for this job I am doing for you, Santa.
Let me start with the search for the perfect gifts that I can’t even put my name on. Yeah, I spent three hours hunting down an obscure Lego set, yet you get the smiles and the thanks. Really? Is this fair, Santa baby? I don’t think so. And now, both of my dudes want iPods. These are not cheap, Kris Kringle, and, yet, your name will go on them. That stinks, bearded man, it really does. Will you set them up for the dudes? No? Oh, so add this to the list of another one of my grievances.
And then there is the Advent calendar. Each night (or early in the morning when I wake up startled by the fact that I forgot the night before), I run and put little gifts in the Advent calendar. Gifts that are “supposedly” from one of your minions. Yeah, the elf that sneaks into our house, i.e. me, is getting ticked, Santa. So are the dogs. Why, you ask? Because they get blamed when there is nothing left in the calendar. Poor dogs, Santa. Poor, poor dogs. They sit, hearing the blame, and tuck their tales between their legs. Is that fair, Kringle? Shouldn’t you be sending a reliable elf each night that doesn’t have to swear through piles of essays to grade? Yes, Santa, you should. And you owe my sweet, innocent dogs. Big time.
And then the creepy Elf on the Shelf. Do you know where he was one of the mornings? Why he was sitting next to Mary and Joseph in our manger scene. He actually moved Mary and the baby Jesus in order to fit in there. Creepy? Heck yes, Santa. He also has these spooky, hollow eyes – I almost feel like he is following me (and even undressing me) with them. It is a strange feeling, Santa, and one you both should be aware of. The last thing that looked at me like that, the chocolate Easter bunny, met an untimely demise. The dogs are mad at him, too, because they were also blamed for his failure to relocate one evening. I am sure they would like to have him as a chew toy, Kringle, so you need to tell the Elf, who the dudes named Henry, to keep himself out of the dog’s reach. And stay away from my martini glasses. Seriously, Papa Noel, those are not for children.
Oh, and Santa? I just want you to know that I am leaving you carrots and celery this year. They are for you so don’t try and pass them off to the reindeer. Maybe it is time you join Cookie Monster in demonstrating a healthy lifestyle. You need to be careful, Santa dear. Plus, I have discontinued the candy tradition in the Advent calendar. Why, you ask? Have you ever witnessed an eight-year-old who has candy for breakfast? No? It is not pretty, St. Nick, but you wouldn’t know anything about that because you haven’t been there to talk a small child down from swinging on the chandelier.
Your present this year is a lump of coal. You are on my naughty list, Santa dude, yes indeed. You may make it to my good list if, and only if, you can turn that coal into a diamond for me next year.
I need to go, Santa, I am bidding on eBay for a present that is completely sold out at Toys-R-Us. You owe me. Big time. Ho, ho, ho.