Every year, like any warm-blooded, marginally Christian grown up, I write a Dear Santa letter. And every year, it goes a little something like this:
Dear Santa,
I’ve been really (exaggerate, exaggerate or exaggerate) this year and I haven’t even once (lie, lie, lie). I was particularly proud when I (flat-out-lie) and when I (won-the-Nobel-Peace-prize or something equally ridiculous). So I’d really appreciate it if you could give me an E type:
or maybe a Lambo:
or, if all else fails, whatever you’ve got lying around your workshop is fine:
or all of the above.
Thanks a lot. Oh and I may have eaten the cookies.
Ciao,
Mama
This year, that fat freak wrote me back!
Dear Mama,
I see you when you’re sleeping, I know when you’re awake, I see you flirting with the cops, so lay off the gas for goodness sake. As for your list, we both know you won’t be satisfied no matter what I wrap in your driveway (see Car Slut Confessions). I’d write more but Prancer and I have some carbon to burn off:
Ho, ho, ho,
Santa