Season’s greetings from your old friend Santa! My, oh, my, only 12 nights left until Christmas Eve! Things are getting so close now, we can hardly contain ourselves here at the North Pole. And from the looks of it, my young friend, we’re not the only ones set to burst! Why, Jolly Old Saint Nick hasn’t seen a Yule log this lit in ages!
Season’s greetings from your old friend Santa! My, oh, my, only 12 nights left until Christmas Eve! Things are getting so close now, we can hardly contain ourselves here at the North Pole. And from the looks of it, my young friend, we’re not the only ones set to burst! Why, Jolly Old Saint Nick hasn’t seen a Yule log this lit in ages!
Now, don’t be shy. You know what Santa’s talking about. You just couldn’t wait to open your present this year, could you? Ho, ho, ho! Dear child, I saw you masturbating!
And it hasn’t been just once either! Oh, no! Santa’s seen you at least twice splashing away in the bathtub, three times in the attic with one of your mother’s old art-history books, and more times than even he can count spread out like a stunned partridge on that beanbag chair of yours!
Why, old Santa might just have a heart attack if he popped out your chimney on that cold winter’s night and, instead of milk and cookies, found his dear little pen pal shamefully hunched over the family computer.
Oh, what a naughty, prolific rascal you’ve been!
You see, dear lad, Santa’s been keeping a list. Just like the one you keep in your head of all your favorite classmates. The one you’ve checked so much more than twice. Except when Santa thinks about his list, he doesn’t rub his crotch feverishly against the smooth contours of his writing desk. Ho, ho, ho!
I see you when you’re sleeping, child, and I know when you’re awake. And, believe it or not, I even know when you’re just pretending to sleep, but really have your rosy palms down the front of your britches.
Yes, I suppose you could say old Kris Kringle knows everything there is to know. Well, not everything. You did teach me a thing or two about scented body wash! Ho, ho, ho!
Tell me now, what do you want Santa to bring you this year? A bright red bicycle? Some fun new board games? Or should I just have the elves wrap up a fresh batch of those satin pillows you enjoy straddling so much? Or maybe St. Nick shouldn’t bring you anything at all this Christmas. After all, Mrs. Claus knitted you a special pair of socks last year, and just look what became of those!
Oh, what ever happened to that sweet, freckle-faced angel we all loved so much? Such a bright little youngster, so good to your mommy and daddy, and quick to make friends. Now all you seem to want to do is play by yourself for hours on end. It makes everyone here at my workshop very, very sad. Why the reindeer haven’t been able to keep down their feed since hearing about how you slap yourself around. And Mrs. Claus, do you know what she did when she found out? She cried. She cried for the first time in almost 700 years.
Where before we enjoyed visions of gumdrops and candy canes, now we see you, once so dear to us all, kneeling against a plastic chair, spitting on two fingers, and putting them lordy knows where.
I must say, the sights you conjure up while you lie in your bed have even Santa Claus scratching his head. I doubt any of the high-school cheerleaders have ever even set foot inside a boiler room before, never mind done anything like that!
And other things—other terrible, frightful things. If your outlandish fantasies didn’t make me quake with disgust, I’d say you were the most creative child in the world.
Is it Clara? Is that who you think about when you rub yourself raw? Ho, ho, ho! Why she doesn’t even know your name, dear child! You didn’t really think you had a chance with her, did you? A pretty girl like that? But your face—it’s covered in pockmarks, for goodness sake!
Don’t cry now, little one. I’m sure some of the Barbie dolls you steal from your sister’s room find you very attractive. I bet they hardly even notice your embarrassing stutter, or that pungent and sickly body odor of yours. Or even how pathetic you really are, my child. What a sad, lonely, feeble little shit you are, and how your life—your wretched little life—will be filled with failure after failure, both personal and professional, until the stench of disappointment and heartbreak grows so strong that you’ll barely be able to breathe.
Well, it looks old Santa has to get back to work! Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night—except you, you sick little fuck!