Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Dear Santa: It's A Long Story

Dear Elf, Old and Jolly: 

Let's dispense with the pleasantries, fat man, OK?  For as far back as I can remember you and your team of Holiday Homunculi have ground your Christmas axes all over me.  Do you think I have forgotten that - as a little boy - each Christmas for three years in a row I asked you to bring me the set of 500 Army men that I saw advertised on the back cover of every comic book that I ever sneaked into our home under Dad's nose and that for three years running, you screwed me?  What type of tree-hugging peacenik are you? Have you and Bernie Sanders ever been photographed in the same place?  Ever?   

But I digress.

I suppose that I have long understood that, from your perspective, Christmas is a meritocracy.  Be good, get good stuff.  Be a lawyer, get...well, get enough coal to justify casting Sissy Spacek and Tommy Lee Jones in a biopic.  I am far too far past the exit ramp for the Road to Redemption to ever hope to find my way back to it at this point in my life.  So, Mr. Claus, I borrowed a page from the late, great Warren Zevon and went looking for the next best thing.  I am pleased to report, I have found it.  

This December, Ol' Double K, I shall not be any less of a miserable SOB than I have been in Decembers past (or Januaries through Novembers Past, truth be told), but I shall still have myself a merry little Christmas.  I have bypassed you entirely!  My route to Yuletide Joy? 

Out on the Backstreets of course.  And it turns out all I needed to get there was a credit card and means to pay the bill when it arrives.  Merry Christmas to me - and to Rob as well!  


P.S. - Lay off the cookies.  Just sayin'.  

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