DEAR SANTA: DEFINE “NAUGHTY”…

Dear Santa:

I can explain…

Remember the scene in the original Blues Brothers movie where Carrie Fisher has John Belushi trapped in the tunnel under the highway and is holding an automatic weapon on him, preparing to shoot his lying, betraying butt for standing her up at the altar? JB is on his knees, begging her not to kill him.

“I swear”, he cries, “it wasn’t my fault”.

“My car ran out of gas…”

“I had a flat tire…”

“I didn’t have any money for cab fare…”

“My tux didn’t come back from the cleaners…”

“An old friend came in from out of town…”

“Someone stole my car…”

“We had an earthquake…” (In Illinois?)

“There was a flood…”

“~…locusts…”

“IT WASN’T MY FAULT!”

Impressive list.

Just to set the tone here, I still believe in Santa Claus. Yes, it’s true, I still believe in the whole Santa and the elves and Mrs. Santa and Rudolph and the other reindeer and the toy factory and the sliding down the chimney, leaving presents and eating the milk and cookies schtick.

And don’t tell me about fantasies and impossibilities, okay? ‘Cause as far as I’m concerned, Funk and Webster’s should have taken the word “impossible” right out of their forking dictionary on November 9th 2016, the day after Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump got elected President of the United States.

Impossible? Shit, that was double-secret probation unbelievable.

I can still remember clearly watching all the election night/political analyst dweebs on CNN fumble-fucking all over themselves that evening, trying to wrap their minds around and then explain how in the world Donald Trump got elected, despite all their analysis and predictions that he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of beating Hillary “Lock Her Up” Clinton. (I didn’t think he did either.) The visages and verbal expressions of incredulity were everywhere. From the way their faces looked, you would have thought Wolf Blitzer had suddenly run on-camera stark naked from the wings offstage, yelling that he was the Emperor of Spleens and that he would sprout angel wings, fly off the roof of the CNN building there in Hotlanta and swoop down on Jane Fonda to prove it. (Yeah, I know, Jane and Ted aren’t together anymore, but who was Wolf gonna’ swoop down on, Hank Aaron?)

Stunned. Like a bovine hit with a cattle prod, right between the eyes stunned.

Impossible? Don’t tell me about impossible after that fiasco.

So yeah, I still believe in Santa. And the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny and the Great Pumpkin and the check is in the mail. As far as I’m concerned, all bets are off since that November night, just over two years ago.

Anyway, I was in the middle of writing my annual letter to Santa Claus…

It wasn’t my fault, Santa, because I was led astray by evil, wanton women, who forced me to pursue sins of the flesh (repeatedly), to drink “likker” (repeatedly), to indulge myself with illegal drugs (repeatedly), to get a nipple ring (not repeatedly), to boldly go where no man has gone before and to party on, Wayne.

Party on, Garth.

So given my complete lack of culpability here (just like certain folks of the “liberal” persuasion…it’s always someone else’s fault), I’m going to give you my “wish list”, Santa, and hope you can see your way clear to bring me these things. At least one or two anyway.

Here we go…

~An electric train set. Not one of those little baby, roundy-round things, but one of those huge, fills up the whole basement monster sets with buildings and mountains and bridges and bushes and trees and tiny towns and little crossing barriers that go up and down and all kinds of cool-looking little railroad cars and engines in G or HO or BS scale or whatever the hell they are, chugging around the tracks making little “whoo-whoo” noises and blowing real smoke out the smokestacks. I’ll build it, I just need a place to keep it and the money to pay for it…that’s where you come in.

~A synthesized, gamma ray-generating 56mm harmonizing laser cannon.

~Some new underwear.

~Eight maids a-milkin’.

~A Pagani Huayra. (Please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please. A Porsche 718 Boxster would be okay too, but the Pagani would be way cool.)

~Every album ever recorded by the 1910 Fruit Gum Company.

~A Taylor 858ce twelve-string acoustic.

~And just like Sandra Bullock and all the contestants in the Miss United States beauty pageant (“It’s a scholarship program!”) in the movie Miss Congeniality, world peace.

~Oh, and free beer.

Yeah, I know, it seems like a lot, but honest SC, I truly have been good, other than those one or two moments of indiscretion I alluded to above. Certainly getting the nipple ring wasn’t really a “bad” thing to do, and it was way better than doing what Kelsey Grammer did in the movie Down Periscope…he had “Welcome Aboard” tattooed on his johnson, which now that I think of it, maybe wouldn’t be such a bad thing to have, being the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding and all.

Well, maybe just a decal (a very small one) at first, just to see how it looks.

Tell you what, Santa, I’ve got a better idea…instead of bringing me or anyone else all the material crap on their lists that, quite probably, they don’t need anyway, how about you take all the money and effort you would usually expend and build new places for those poor folks down in Puerto Rico? Or help out all the Floridians who lost everything they owned after Hurricane Michael? Or give a hand to all those poor people out there in Paradise and the rest of the California? In fact, how about if you just shut down the toyworks completely and put the elves to work on these types of projects all year round from now on?

I mean, I don’t really need a Huayra, and I can buy my own underwear. And how many more buildings and resorts and golf courses does Donald Trump need anyway?

Besides, it would save me having to write one of these dopey letters every December if you did.

Love and mistletoe,

Cap’n John

Post Script…full disclosure here: I didn’t really get a nipple ring.

I got two.

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