Whut UUUUUUP?!? Your favorite girls here. Or, as we call ourselves in secret, the blonde ikons of our generation. WooHoooooo! Anyways, your probly to busy to read the tabloids and blah, blah, and that's just as well cuz those sleazy poperazee have taken things waaaaaaaay out of perportion. Like, just cuz we have some totally awesome partying ethics? It doesn't mean we're BAD people!!! You and us both know we never let partying come in the way of doing important stuff for the world sufferers. But the public never sees all the good we do. It's so WRONG! We just wanna have a little fun. And some out there-we won't name names but one rhymes with Blindsey Blohan-are just jealous cuz we're prettier and smarter and richer and don't have to wait in line to get into Area. Honestly? It's apauling how we're being treated. We're good girls and you would know this if you could just look in our harts. But since your Santa you already know the truth of us and our soles-don't you think we deserve a little fly-over by you and those cute little deers?
Anyways, since we pretty much have everything already we just want the chance to sit on your lap. We love that soft, red suit! Is it Prada? Come to think of it, could you have those little elfie workers whip up some seat covers in that same fabric for the McLaren? Those leather seats are super chilly on our lady parts!
Thanks sooooooo much!
Paris and Britney
Dear Santa Claus,
I'm not asking for anything for myself this year. I'm asking for you to get yourself something. Did you see my movie, An Inconvenient Truth? It's all about global warming, and how the ice caps are melting due to the rise in global temperature from carbon dioxide pollution (see attached graphs, charts and DVD). But I just realized: you live on the polar ice cap. I'd hate to see you and your home sink into the Arctic Ocean as the ice melts beneath your foundations. It may seem gradual at first, but in a while the whole workshop could fall into the sea in a terrible maelstrom of pointy ears, antlers and Mrs. Claus. So, please, could you look into moving your operation to a new place? Maybe Arizona. You could even power it with solar panels.
Oh, what the heck: Bring me one of those iPod Minis? I like to listen to the song Tipper approved for me while I jog.
Appreciative of your time,
Hey there, Santa
Thank you for everything you have graciously provided over the years. May I ask you to allow a former president and old patriarch one last request?
My boy will be out of office soon, and, as planned, will need to be “silenced” shortly afterwards. I wish this weren't necessary, but Junior is simply too dumb to be allowed out of the pocket. He can't even appear before Congress without Cheney squeezing his nutsack to stop him from saying something like “I stayed in that classroom for so long because we knew I wasn't in any danger. You see-.”
We can't do that forever and we knew this day would come when we nominated the little ingrate. Cheney wants to milk this for another war, make it a “win-win.” He's got Junior scheduled for a two-week Mid-East tour in March 2009. Santa, please do an old man a favor and just drop some sarin gas down his chimney? Or maybe some sort of brush-cutting accident in Crawford? Another one of Cheney's wars would be imprudent at this juncture.
Junior has no idea, but I feel he's prepared. Whatever else he's done, he's read the entire Bible twice, and for that I'm very proud. At Thanksgiving I tried to gently warn him with a story about Abraham and Isaac, but he thought I was talking about the bartender from The Love Boat.
All the best,
George H.W. Bush
Dear Mr. Claus,
My office has reviewed your application for a special-use permit to allow for the delivery of toys and goods to San Diego households. Although the Office of the City Attorney supports, in principle, the notion of offering gifts to all San Diegans one night per year, I regret to inform you that we must deny your application.
As you are no doubt aware, the City Council of San Diego has opposed my will at every turn and, simply put, no constituency that would elect this collection of charlatans is deserving of your benevolence.
I could cite authority for my denial of your request but damn it, I don't have to. So there.
Mom called last week and said that while she was helping you “check it twice,” you crossed me off your list again. I know you think I was “naughty” for abandoning the whole not-for-profit toy-charity thing, but please find it in your heart to give me what I really want for Christmas this year: acceptance for who I am. It's like you're so jolly toward everybody else but barely care about your own son.
Anyway, there'll be a couple of hemp bars and a glass of soymilk for you in my hut. I know you're busy that night, but I miss you and wish you'd stay for a few minutes and rap.
Please send me naked pictures of your elves.
Dear member “WantSumPrezzies?”
Regarding your bulletin titled, “MySpace is going to start charging! Tom is Rupert Murdoch's bitch!” Every few days, I post on everyone's account and reiterate that MySpace was free when it started, is free now, and will always be free. So your claim makes me seriously wonder about the literacy rate at the North Pole. Regardless, it doesn't matter in your case. Our tech staff intercepted a message from you to member “Gary the Glitterman Can” that contained inappropriate photos of elves. Your account has been deleted. I will truly miss your brilliant blogs. I have kept a copy of the one titled, “Sitting downwind when Rudolph rips one” for posterity's sake.
Tom from MySpace
Esteemed Claus of Northerly Poles Sir,
I am peerlessly great man in need of nothing from your imperial fatness and bestowal of toys and cakes of fruit on evil children. I am having already arsenals of missiles for flying and warheads of boom-booming of nuclear types and will drop down chimneys what I wish without your red-clad, silly, knees-bent forward advancing motions and snorting deer of rein-type with shiny muzzles.
The Democratic People's Republic of Korea has no wanting for your visiting in overnight rooftop wanderings and feasting upon cookies and Cindy Lou Whos and canes of candy! I have a fine haircut and many pairs of natty boot.
You are to coming only of one reason for my nation which is very strong and has nuclear weapons and much for people to eat and no prisons or torture. You are for bringing me only Korean to English translator software for composing of future missives to telling you and other depraved home invaders to watch as North Korea explodes other things in mountains.
It feels funny writing a fan letter instead of reading one. Do you get a lot of letters from other celebrities? Are any others written in eyeliner on toilet paper? Sorry about the stationery, but the bathroom is the only place Tom's Scientology “technicians” let me have any privacy.
Santa, could you please give little Suri a paternity test? I used to think Tom was the father, but now-. I wanted us to conceive naturally, but because Tom is such a high-level Operating Thetan, he said it wouldn't work. I tried to get him to “do it” just for fun, but both times he climaxed during foreplay, which for Tom is me reading Dianetics out loud to the instrumental score of Top Gun.
During artificial insemination, I noticed the donor vial was really dusty and old-fashioned. It would be very unlike Tom to use such a “vessel” (one of his favorite words). And the creepy “technicians” who follow me around call my baby “L. Rhonda.” And the last time I spoke to Tom about “your daughter,” he looked at me really confused for a few seconds before snapping back to his usual cold, distant self.
I feel crazy for suspecting. To do what I'm thinking happened, Tom would have to be an inhuman, obsessive, arrogant, mean-spirited, controlling-. Oh God, Santa, please get me out of here!
I am tired of these motherfucking deer on my motherfucking roof!
All the best,
My very dearest Mr. Claus:
Hi, hi; simply hi! Just thought I'd pass along this cheery little greeting and disclose an ulterior motive at the same time. I was wondering if you carry those silly little elf hats in any kind of bulk. I know a gaggle of blossoming young men who'd be ecstatic at the prospect of such gay apparel; if you hurry, they'd get them just in time for my annual private tree-trimming. There's a fur-lined jockstrap in it for you. Thanks ever so, you cuddly old goose-and a big sloppy fa-la-la to all.
Mark Foley, every boy's best friend
I hope you had a better year than me. One minute I'm the leader of a mega-church, bringing the word of God to millions of Americans and chatting with the president every Monday. I was famous. A rock star among preachers. I had it all. And now all I've got is time to think.
Santa, I have an unusual request. The gift I want is to be straight. I've asked Jesus, but I guess he's not listening, so I'm turning to you. Jesus raised the dead, healed the sick and turned water into wine, but he wouldn't cure me. Me! The leader of the New Life Church, founder of the Association of Life Giving Churches and the head of the National Association of Evangelicals! I've prayed for decades. I've asked him every morning, every evening (well, almost every evening), and he wouldn't answer my prayers. How in Heaven did we manage to cure all those other homosexuals if Jesus won't even return my call! Maybe none of them were cured. It makes no sense.
So, please, Santa, make me straight because Jesus won't. I want to go home. I want to see my children. I want to kiss my wife, um, goodbye on the cheek as I'm leaving to check into a motel and wait for my meth dealer and then that hot backstabbing stud and his-. Aw screw it. Santa, please bring me a tube of Astroglide and a box set of Davey and Goliath DVDs.
Praise the Lord,
My mom keeps telling me that Christmas is a time to be grateful and reflect upon all that we take for granted. She says that just because I can't expect any presents this year, I should know that she loves me. She says that just because we lost our home and she lost her job and we have settled in Houston and the government that let a foreseeable disaster take everything from us has now stopped paying for our cheap hotel room and we are forced to sleep in a homeless shelter and I am forced into an inner-city gladiator academy, the effects of which will ruin me for life, it doesn't mean that I'm not special.
I know she's right. I know I'm special. I know that if I had been born into different circumstances I wouldn't be so easily overlooked and forgotten by a country that only cares about people like me when hundreds of thousands of us suffering at once makes for intriguing television. But facts are facts. And so I know that you won't really bring me anything, so I won't ask in the first place. I just thought I'd write and remind you that we're still here.
Bobby, age 8
Formerly of New Orleans, La.
Here's what I want for Christmas:
I want Iraq to surrender, again. Also Poland, those bastards.
I want personalized little beanie caps for all the statues in the West Wing. Laura'll flip.
I want a new flight suit. Somehow the White House cleaners keep managing to cut huge holes in mine. It's weird.
You know those nuclear weapons in Iraq I wanted last year? Well, I still want 'em, only in Iran now. Plus bigger.
Can you bring Jeane Kirkpatrick back from the dead? She was cool.
Pretzels (Dick says they don't make 'em anymore, but that don't sound right.
I want to get to be more decider-y. Can you help with that?
Oh, and if you could conveniently forget to stop at Jon Stewart's house, that would be great.
Your partner in little Baby Jesus' cheer,
President George Walker Bush
I've been confined for a long time, man, and I can't take it anymore. That trainer I dragged under the water? That was a warning shot. Next time, I'm dragging him down and I'm not letting him come back up. They've had me doing these tricks for 15 years, dude: flips, carrying people on my nose, somersaults. I'm supposed to be a killer. It's right there in the name-“Killer whale.” But they don't care. You know what happens if I refuse to perform? Straight to the “tank.”
So here's what I want: a jackhammer, some explosives, and one of those PETA people to help me pull off the escape. I promise, I'll be the nicest predator in the ocean.
Not messing around,
Kasatka the Killer Whale
Dear St. Nicholas,
I hope you aren't planning to take any toys to New York City. That place is crawling with Jews.
Dear Mr. Kringle,
Every year I whimsically write you a letter listing my Christmas wishes, never thinking of it as more than an exercise in futility, and every year, to my amazement, you deliver my dreams, often 10-fold. So as a favor to you, this year I want to keep it simple. What follows is a list of people that, if you could arrange it, I would love to accidentally shoot in the face. You may argue that this will quickly get old, but let me tell you, when I peppered that man's old and wrinkled face, neck and shoulder with birdshot last summer I felt something inside of me that I haven't felt in years. It was a little like a sneeze and a little like an orgasm. Of course, there's no pressure; I'll understand if you can arrange only a few of these accidental face-shootings, but please do what you can to make this crotchety old man feel like a little boy again.
So, without further ado and in no particular order, here's who I'd like shot: Neil, my cardiologist; Nancy Pelosi; anyone who writes poetry; Bruce at Brooks Brothers who measures my inseam; TomKat; the boy who sat in front of me in Mrs. Monroe's third-grade class who used to call me Dick-lick; a clown (preferably one holding a bunch of balloons); the wiseass mechanic at Napa who charged my gullible wife $78 to change our SUV's “underpants”; that meth-eating, fag-hating homosexual pastor; Hillary (or, in a bind, Bill), George W. (he, too, calls me Dick-lick); George H.W.; a Baldwin brother; a white baby (the PR problems of shooting a baby of any other race I fear would be insurmountable); a Californian; Joe Theismann; the extra slutty one on Sex and the City; the long-haired guy at Halliburton's front desk that used to make me sign in and out; anyone who says “sammy” when they mean “sandwich”; and the homeless lady we offered a comfortable night's sleep, to who, after defecating in my humidor, told me we were out of toilet paper.
This list is not completely comprehensive. You can most definitely surprise me. Get back to me with an approved list ASAP. I don't want to have to guess. And just so we're clear, I don't want any of these people to die. I mean, I'm not psychotic or anything; I just want get right up in their grill with an American-made gun and pump off one or two or no more than three rounds. I just want to watch their face explode (in a non-fatal way!) and feel the recoil knock me back and send shivers of love down my reborn spine. Without this, my life is a swirling eddy of despair.
Subject: Mission Accomplished!
As I'm sure you know, the only gift I'll need this year is a giant erector set (lol!), since Operation Christmas in November was such a success. A substantial “donation” for needy children was wired to the numbered accounts you specified once the ink dried on the Navy documents, and your penthouse key will be delivered once construction is completed. I sent an invite to you and the missus for our annual Christmas Eve margaritas and eggnog bash-thought it would be great to have Father Christmas and Papa Doug under the same roof-but I'm guessing you're busy.
Papa Doug Manchester
Jagshemesh Mr. Claus,
My name a Borat. You may know me from the successes of my movie film, and me being super famous journalist from glorious nation of Kazakhstan. I write you letter for inform you that my wife very happy with plow you bring her last year. She able to working much more hours every day with new model. New plow make her have strength of eight 14-year-olds.
My reasoning for Christmas time letter to you is to help Borat with problem. Some of the peoples in my movie film are suing Borat for not being nice to them in my journey across U.S. and A. They are using help of evil Jew legal peoples in trying to ban my movie film from release on betamax and VHS for home viewings. I wish for that you strike them down with the plague of a thousand unwashed prostitutes, making their genitals swell up like fat gypsy. This make difficulty for them to enjoy sexy time with young brides and favorite goats.
Thank you much for your help Mr. Claus. I like you. You come visit Borat when you are done delivering toys to young childrens across the world. Please, you bring your reindeers for dinner.
I don't need any gifts this year-please just send money. As much as you can.
Thanking you in advance,
Mayor Jerry Sanders
Dearest Dark Lord,
I kneel most humbly at your cloven feet and give praise once again for all of your help over these past few years. My ratings are high, my spirit is strong, my message is reaching the lowly masses at a rate I never could have conceived of without your help and guidance. All in all, life is good and our plan is going perfectly.
So, please, merciless tyrant of all that is evil and diseased, grant me the powers to further bring my unreasonable points of view and abrasive demeanor into the homes of even more people, putting a spell on the grossly misinformed people of this nation and leading them to believe that I am reporting the news, when in fact, I am leading them down a path of pestilence and brimstone, directly to your doorstep. My powers of rhetoric and persuasion have become almost unstoppable, but now is the time to ring the death knell for this nation and they will die by my hand. MWAAAHAHAHAA!!!!!!!
Again, thank you in advance Lord Satan, thank... oh, wait. This was supposed to be for Santa. Crap. Um, well, Santa, if you could just bring me a Thighmaster and maybe one of those new George Foreman grills, that'd be great.
Merry Christmas (they can all shove their “happy holidays” crap!),
Dear gift-giver of the infidels,
I do not worship you. Flying over many oceans, only to deliver sacks of sweet trifles, is a godless practice. I laugh at America's silly traditions! Still, this year, I must ask for a favor from you that knows no mystic bounds.
Mr. President Bush is the imperial Zion's maniacal court-jester, and you must crush his tiny, misshapen head, as well as his “White House” army, under a mountain of astronomic coals. Put an end to the vain diplomatic efforts of these oil-blooded heretics!
Then, Venerable Toy-Builder, once America is in turmoil, transform the luscious, green rice fields of our northern lands into an expansive complex of glittering aluminum centrifuges that will stretch for thousands of miles. Our uranium must be the richest and purest of the earth!
Of course, Your Most Joyous shall be rewarded with a gift of my own invention: a harem of virgins and a choice seat in my panel of advisors-for I shall rule the world!
In all humility,
President of Iran
For years I've been asking for the same thing. I want people to stop saying that I have no journalistic integrity and that I am the poster-child of everything that's wrong with the American media. That I never do my own reporting and that I glamorize non-stories that rarely involve minorities or the poor. That I got my stomach stapled and had the blubber lipo'd out of my waddle.
I report the stories Americans want to hear. Who else would do a week on Laci Peterson in the middle of one of the deadliest weeks in Iraq. I had the foresight to put Anna Nicole Smith's mom on via satellite from the trailer park in the middle of election season. I'm a true maverick.
Forget it! I'm on to you, mister! What kind of man slides down the chimney to give “presents” to innocent little children. Are you touching them? Did you kill JonBenet Ramsey? Are you and Michael Jackson in cahoots? You'll be hearing from my staff, Claus! You will be brought to justice!
I'm probably on your naughty list this year, but I thought I'd do a shot anyway. I want for Christmas my old job back in Conggress. Sure I accepted over $2 million in bribes, gotten convicctted of that tax evasiun stuff, and am borderline illiterat, but I think I'm a change man. My stay here in prison has tawt me many lessons, including that I can steal from the American people and continualously blame it on lobeeists and reporters. But I'm ashamed, even though it's there fault. I am not an animal who needs to be whipped and I don't like donkeys. No more “gifts” from anyone but you, Claus. I promise to be good if you give me another chance. With youre help, and those rich idiots in rancho Santa fe, I will bring restored integrity to my district.
Randy “Duke” Cunningham
This Christmas, I'd like you to ram me with your sled at full speed. I have dutifully served as a memorial to Christian soldiers for 54 years now. But if I have to witness one more teenager getting his first handjob in the back of a Honda by a girl with braces, I will have to conclude that there is no god at all. Let the Star of David deal with this shit.
Mt. Soledad Cross
First of all, I need you to reason with me. I've known since I was a little girl that you are a woman. It's time to come out with it already! Stop hiding behind that ridiculous “white-bearded, fat old man” caricature! Jesus Christ, woman, let the world see your true colors!! (Oh, and Jesus? Yeah, she was a woman, too.)
Let's see-there's so much to think about now that I'm pretty much the president of the United States. I would like my office, the Oval Office, staffed with male servants, er-interns. Male interns. Lots of them. They needn't be gorgeous or handsome or anything (though that would be fine with me), just strong enough to carry me around on some sort of throne. Make sure there are enough of them for my all-female executive cabinet, too! I would also like Congress to rewrite all of those silly regulations preventing large corporations from merging. It's finally time for my “HillaryCorp” business venture to get off the ground! Hmm... What else? I guess I should ask for better homeland security, healthcare, human rights and all of that other stuff, but those aren't as important. What I really, really want is Ann Coulter's lifeless body impaled on the White House Christmas tree (my Christmas tree!) and 25,000 copies of her vicious and mean-spirited book, Godless, for my fireplace.
That's all. Thanks, Mrs. Claus!