Dec. 22 2015 12:21 AM

Find out what certain actors, politicians, athletes and pizza rats want for Christmas

Asking Santa Claus for gifts and presents for Christmas is a time-honored, commercial tradition. As one presidential candidate would note, "It's huge!" Around the holidays, however, the U.S. Postal Service gets overwhelmed and sometimes Santa's mail gets delivered to our office. To make sure word gets to the North Pole in time we're skipping postage costs and printing these letters originally intended for St. Nick's mailbox.


Hey Santa:

First off, thanks again for the satellite TV upgrade for the KEV (Kevin Entertainment Vehicle) last year. Yeah, I know I credited the police chief for that little perk. My bad, but we polled telling the truth and, yadda yadda, thumbs down on the Christmas Miracle pitch. That's politics!

So what's this about you raising the North Pole elves' pay to 15 bucks an hour? Are you chestnuts? How do you keep your ice hoteliers, sled-club pals and sports teams jolly with behavior like that? Look, you're my mentor: the constant smiling, the positive messaging, the shopping-mall appearances—I even play you once a year at my sister's school, for Kringle's sake! So why do the Grinches still call me bland, a credit hog, a seeker of political cover?

Regarding this year's gift, I remain undecided. My Task Force on Mayoral Gift Priorities continues to deliberate. Expect a decision no later than June.

Ambiguously yours,
Mayor Kevin Faulconer

Hey again, Santa:

When I wrote you eight years ago there was just one gift request on my list: the keys to the White House. You delivered those to somebody else, and I've been a good soldier since. Now it's my turn, big guy. I've softened the image and done my turns on Saturday Night Live and The Tonight Show.

As you can see, I'm not sending you this note from the private server at home. Wait. Is a letter to Santa classified material? I don't think a sane individual would think so. But nobody ever accused the House of Representatives of sanity.

Deliver me access to the Oval Office. Because, as my good friend Sen. Al Franken has led me to believe, I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and doggone it, people like me!

Hillary Clinton




Dear Santa:

I hope I'm doing this right (this is my first time sending a letter to the North Pole!). Anyhow, as you probably know, I suspended my campaign for President of the United States. I think we could all see it coming from a gigameter away. But I could still use your assistance in another way: To help bring the metric system to the U.S. I can feel it in every cubic milliliter of my being that this is the path forward for our country. I know you're with me on this. You've been lugging kilograms of toys to children in Europe for a long time, and I think you'd agree it's time we go the extra kilometer on this one.

I'm Lincoln Chafee and I appro...whoops, still getting used to not doing that,
Lincoln Chafee

Hey Loser:

You're taking a lot of the attention away from me right now and I need you to back off. I need all eyes on me right now. I know every other President has given you a free pass in the past but you can bet your ass that when I'm in the Oval Office, you'll find it a little more difficult to get into this country. I heard you don't have a birth certificate? Oh, that's too bad. Neither does Obama, but I think that come January 2017, you'll find that it'll be a little harder to get a visa once you hit the Canadian border. And don't think you'll be able to sneak in through Mexico. I'm gonna have a wall there so big you'll be able to see it from the North Pole. You can just stay there with the rapists and murderers.

So here's the deal, Claus: Back off and I'll let you keep coming in to leave fresh wigs and bankruptcy lawyers under my tree. If not, well, I'LL BOMB THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!!!

Also, you look like Rosie O'Donnell with a beard.

President Trump

(Get used to saying it now, Fatboy!)

Dear Santa:

I'm going to need you to invoke Santa confidentiality on this letter. If this gets out I'm toast. So here goes...when the 2016 elections are over I need to check into a sanitarium. Because that's where I seem to have gotten all my GOP presidential candidates. And I'm losing my mind smiling and pretending these fruit loops spew anything close to coherent thought.

Look, I was named chairman of the Republican National Committee in 2011. Like I could have predicted the star of The Celebrity Apprentice would be leading the polls right now? Where'd we get a neurosurgeon who seems to be sleepwalking? Did Chris Christie eat Bobby Jindal? Doesn't anybody else notice Carly Fiorina's hair is made of serpents? Did Ted Cruz say he would carpet bomb Syria, but only rain hell on terrorists and not civilians? Forget smart bombs—do we have genius bombs now?

Santa, this was supposed to be another Bush election cycle. Jeb! We were just going to roll him out onto the stage and watch the Koch brothers' money do its magic. This was not the script. Does Southwest Airlines still do those Gotta Get Away fares? Does Timbuktu have nice funny farms? My mind is blown, baby. I've come to terms with my weird name, but I can't handle this jinky primary race.

Reince Priebus



What's an unofficial mascot to do when his team threatens to leave the city? I've reached out to the Simpsons creators to see if I can stand in on a couple episodes for DuffMan. But I know that's not something you can make happen.

This may sound odd, but with the team's future up in the air all I want for Christmas are two things. The first is a Costco-sized allotment of toilet paper. If the team somehow stays in San Diego, I'll need lots of TP, in light of the way the Spanos family shit all over me and my diehard bros. However, if the team bolts to Carson, can I have a cherry red Ferrari California T? I could whip up to Carson in those spiffy wheels. And that kinda car would really get the Spanos sons to notice me...


Dear Santa!

I'm beyond thrilled! I feel like you already brought me my present when I got picked ahead of a bunch of older guys to be manager of the San Diego Padres. I'm sorry that Mr. Black and Mr. Murphy left the job this year. But it's so cool to work for Mr. Dee and Mr. Preller. I know—I'm nearly the same age as Mr. Preller, but he's the boss man. I am younger than just about every other manager in the major leagues. I'm definitely younger than Mr. Roberts—and shorter too, ha—and I wish him bad luck when he's managing the Dodgers when we play them here in Petco Park.

So, Santa, for Christmas I'd like the usual: a pony, a PlayStation, Call of Duty: Black Ops III, a new Spalding baseball glove and a complete set of Upper Deck 2015 MLB baseball cards. Oh, and a National League West pennant. But don't forget the pony.

Your pal,
Andy Green

Dear Santa:

From the moment
I retired from basketball
And started writing poetry
I knew one thing was real:

I rule at it.

It's like regular writing
But with more returns
In basketball we call those turnovers
In poetry, things can mean other things

So Santa, this year
All I want is a new pen and Moleskine
To practice my poetry
And maybe a couple words that rhyme
with MVP

I'll always be the kid with mad game
But now Iím learning whatís at stake
In a world
With no Kobetry
(that's Kobe + poetry)

Kobe Bryant

Business types

Hey Big Guy,

It's been a bit of a tough year, being the new CEO of America's most hated theme park and all. I've been putting on the nice guy façade, but the California Coastal Commission really has it out for me. Isn't an enclosure expansion enough!? The killer whales are fiiiine. Yes, their containers are relatively bathtub-sized now, but soon they'll be the size of an orca JACUZZI. They're living the good life! Anyways, I have to ask, how do you do it? I mean with the well-behaved reindeers and all. Xanax? Meditation? You have to share your secret with me. Feel free to stop by SeaWorld while you're in town. Maybe your reindeer can teach my orcas a few things about being cooperatively enslaved animals.

While I have your attention, I was wondering if you could get your hands on some top-secret info as my Christmas present: details on how the Virgin Mary conceived Jesus. Now that's a trick I need to teach these animals if we're going to stay in business. The CCC can't outlaw miracles! I know it's a tall order, but we're buddies right? And if you can't get it done, no worries. I'll just sic the killer whales on you...kidding!

Stay cool,
Joel Manby

Dear Santa:

Looking forward to our continuing negotiations over the North Pole acquisition. As I've said previously, the Claus Conglomerate has nothing to worry about, long or short-term. Operations will continue as they always have. Rest assured, despite defamatory rumors, there are no current plans for development of the 1,200-acre Divine Flying Reindeer pasture into a strip mall anchored by a PetSmart and dog food factory.

Still, prior to acquisition and destruc—pardon me, ahem, acquisition—I'd be grateful if you'd consider bringing this good (old) boy the following:

1. Cheap looking orange wig worthy of the poor man's Donald Trump.
2. Obama dartboard.
3. New strings for my Kevin Faulconer puppet.
4. Year's supply of Turtle Wax, to keep my plastic face shiny.
5. Year's supply of Viagra, to know.
6. Five bridesmaids.
7. A bigger hammer.

The way I see it: Father Christmas and Papa Doug, together at last!

Yours in Christ and to hell with everyone else,
Papa Doug Manchester

Dear Santa:

Please bring my grandchildren, Colt and Kimber, two Bullet Blocker NIJ IIIA backpacks this Christmas. The versatile packs come in stylish colors and the ballistic material adds only 20 ounces!

Their safety in school is my top concern at the NRA. No child should be deprived of the opportunity to grow up and carry a gun in our polite society. The thought that they may never be able to exercise their freedoms due to the unavoidable actions of a misunderstood lone wolf keeps me up at night.

It would be a tragedy for them to be deprived of ever knowing the satisfaction of open carrying inside their neighborhood coffee shop or grocery store.

Until the socio-communists of the Democrat party allow our children to carry guns themselves, they will continue in their schools as mere targets.

Please, Santa, help this old man sleep at night and the kiddos survive the school year.

Yours in arms,
Wayne LaPierre

Dear Santa:

Lo! We meet again, old friend. Do not look so surprised; it's that hubris which will ultimately spell your end, and it will end soon. How long have we been at it? Centuries? Eons? The never-ending flight of future days. Rest assured, the battlefield has changed, as well as my façade, but darkness will prevail. The human soul, where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors! The blood of the innocent will quench my thirst. I will decorate my vile kingdom with the skin of newborns. So all I can ask of thee, Santa, is that your death is slow and deserved of the lowly righteousness you've bestowed. 'Tis better to reign in Hell than serve in the North Pole.

Starbucks red cup


Dear Santa:

Listen, Ol' Sport, I've been patient. You've wiggled down my immaculate chimney (using my hearth to actually burn a fire would only contribute to climate change) many times before, and it would be mad to assume you have yet to notice my empty mantle, where a shiny gold statue deserves to sit. Are you deliberately refusing me the one thing I have yet to achieve in life? Surely, the whole world is aware of the Academy's humiliating ignorance of my talent. I've emailed you nearly every day using my own energy-generating bicycle, hoping you will threaten the Academy with coal (and burning it, therefore contributing to the atmospheric disintegration) next year if they refuse to vote for me. How do these imbeciles fail to comprehend the quantity of energy saved by filming The Revenant in all natural lighting? Not to mention that I endured sexual assault by a grizzly in order to up my chances for an Oscar. What more could these people want! With all due respect, Mr. Claus, you would be floating on patches of ice up there if it were not for my noble strides in environmental protection, and it's not too late for me to make that happen. I digress. All I want for Christmas is one of those golden figurines to call my own, and, naturally, a world run on 100 percent renewable energy.


(This message is sponsored by the Leonardo Dicaprio Foundation, making it illegal to be printed on anything besides recycled materials.)


It's me.
I was wondering how it feels now that
no one sings songs about snow and sleet
Or going over naughty lists
They say time's supposed to heal ya
But I bet you're pretty pissed.

Can you hear me?
I'm pretty sure you can since my songs
are everywhere
At the mall. At the fairs.
And to think that Santa songs were all
we used to bear

There's such a difference between us
And a million miles

Hello from the other side
I must have written a thousand times
To tell you I'm sorry that I'm the new
Christmas soundtrack
But when I write you, you never seem
to talk back.


Santa, my man:

It may seem like I should be on the Naughty List this year, but we really have more in common than ya might think. You're up in the North Pole with Mrs. Claus and, see, I was just over in Sin City hoping some dimes would slide down my south pole, ya feel me? And next thing, I wind up in this hospital. People were always telling me I should shoot more, and I took it to heart, or to vein, I guess. But, you know why else we're alike, man? We both love snow. Tis the season for hot chocolate, and oooh Santa I'm in love with the cocoa. So, anyways, I've come up with a game plan, and I need an assist. Prance your reindeers over here, box out a few of these nurses and dunk a little dose of fresh powder into my breathing tube. Since the docs say they found every drug known to man in my system anyways, it can't hurt right? Going cold turkey isn't my style, brotha, and what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Also, if you could hand-wrap some new brain cells for me too that would be trill. Good pow wow, man. Alright, break!

Lamar Odom

Mr. Claus:

I'm not one to dwell on grievances of the past, but I feel personally wronged by what transpired on the left after the halftime entertainment ceremony at Super Bowl XLIX. That woefully unprepared sinister half of our whimsical dyad left the stage to glory and acclaim, and for what? A poor excuse for choreographed performance? I'm not one to speak ill of my contemporaries, but if you'll indulge my frustration, that was a travesty. I didn't go to Juilliard and fastidiously rehearse day in and day out only to be upstaged by an amateur. It is unbecoming of one who devotes himself to the performing arts. As a fine patron of the theater, I would like to humbly request you find a place for me onstage when Chris Martin and his band of merrymakers perform at the athletic institution's semi-centennial.

Thank you good sir, and my best to Mrs. Claus and those elvish rapscallions,
Right Shark


Yo Santa:

Head's up, Fatboy, 'cause you're on notice. You've been a thorn in the side of the Vatican since your Father Christmas days. You don't think that I know that was you? We got a phat library in Vatican City so don't think any amount of name changing is gonna protect you. There's only room for one person for parents to tell their gullible little brats about on Christmas. Oh, you think I'm talking about Jesus? Hell no, player! I'm talkin' 'bout me! While my predecessors gave you a pass, most of them were too busy diddling little boys to take care of the "Santa Problem." Not me. You into listing stuff, right? Well, here's my list you red-nosed trick:

1.) Love and welcome everyone.
2.) Feed the hungry and heal the sick.
3.) Get Dan Brown to stop writing those stupid-ass books.
4.) Fuck Santa's shit up.

So, yeah, Dan Brown can wait. 'Tis the season and all that dumb shit. I'm a rapper now, haven't you heard? I know people. I could fly Fetty Wap's homies up to the North Pole on Pope Force One and your reindeer wouldn't be able get you out in time. These are some rough dudes and they into dwarves so who knows what they'd do to your little bitch crew of elves.

So consider yourself warned, white boy! You best go silent night or I'm gonna get medieval on yo ass. And you know what the Catholic Church did in medieval times? Eatin' beaver tails and torturing people, that's what! That's how we roll. Ride or die, son!

Your brother in Christ,
Pope Francis

Dear Santa:

Here's what I'd like this year:

1. More plastic surgery gift certificates.
2. For Kim to keep her big ass out of the spotlight for half a second.
3. Lamar's speedy recovery (someone has to help me deal with Khloé's trifling ass).
4. Fresh new ways to stay in the spot light (I'm running out of ideas over here and Satan won't return my calls anymore).
5. A new family. (Mine sucks. Seriously, do any of the Duggars have a spare kid or two I could adopt?)
6.) A new selfie stick.

Olympic Champion and Glamour Woman of the Year,
Bruce Caitlyn Jenner

Mr. Claus:

It has come to our beady-eyed attention that you may have plans to provide—as egregious as this may sound—bicycles to some of our residents and those in surrounding jurisdictions this holiday season. We cannot stress enough to you how vehemently opposed we are to this abominable scheme.

In this age of terrorism, can you imagine the horror that would rain down on our delicate denizens of driving dependence should your vile efforts succeed? You've likely seen press coverage of our opposition to bike lanes on our pristine streets. Again, imagine! Paint! On our...streets!

This will be your only warning. Retired admirals live here, and they will shoot you from the sky if they hear even the slightest "ding" from a bike bell.

Have a nice day.

Sincerely crazy,
City of Coronado Department of Scrooges & Fussbudgets

Dear Santa:

So a rat likes a piece of pizza, big whoop. You know what I like better than pizza? This city. Best, goddamn city in the world, amiright?

Nah, don't get me wrong: I love this freakin' pizza, too. Better than that Chicago crap. What is it? Like, cake? Ahhh, get it out my face.

So, Santa, maybe throw me a couple toppings for this slice. I may be a rodent but I'm no fuckin' mouse. Alls they want is cheese. Give me a break. 'Ey, you know who else loves plain cheese pizza? Staten Islanders. HEY! WATCH YOUR STEP, I'M EATIN' HERE!

Go Knicks!

Pizza Rat


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