Dear Santa:
Seems like only yesterday I was writing you, all I wanted was my two front teeth so I could with you merry chrithmath. And here we are today. Several fake teeth and numerous fillings, but my two front teeth are all mine, so thanks for granting me that small wish.
Then there was that bit of trouble, remember? I saw Mommy kissing you underneath the mistletoe that night. How was I to know Dad was wearing your suit? I got sent to my room, but I didn't shout, I didn't pout. I knew about that list you keep and check twice. I did not want a couple lumps of coal instead of that Red Ryder BB Gun. Thank you, I see fine with one eye, it's not your fault. And it got me out of the draft back in '68, so all in all, that was a good Christmas for me.
I don't know what Grandma did to piss you off, or maybe it was just the worst time of the year for such a journey, the ways deep and the weather sharp, the very dead of winter, and all of that. But getting run over by reindeer is a hard way to reaffirm one's belief in myths. Did I say that? I meant the true spirit of X-mas and, of course, your existence, Santa. I shall be glad of another sale.
And now that I know you have a low tolerance for ambiguity—last year I asked for RAM and got a whole herd of Bo-Peep's sheep; I meant computer memory--I am going to keep this short, sweet, and specific, OK?
First of all, I want World Peace. Am I dreaming the impossible dream? Shouldn’t my reach exceed my grasp? Are my arms too short?
Next, all I want is a room somewhere. You know, far away from the cold night air? Make it a big room, and soundproofed because when all the faithful come joyful and triumphant, they make a lot of noise. And no figgy pudding, sheesh.
Please bring You Know Who a puppy. I asked about that doggie in the window, the one with the waggly tail. Its ears were grown a little longish, and its tail cut short. But the price was astronomical, so that little dogie can just git along, that's its misfortune and none of my own. Heah!
And, yes, thank you for Virginia. And Pennsylvania. And Ohio. And Montana, of all places. Yes, Virginia, si se pudo. Now no one will send us to eat in the kitchen.
As I promised, I’m keeping this short and to the point. Here’s hoping all your wishes come true, too. Enjoy the mutton stew.
And to all, a good night.
Do-It-Yourself-Gift from me to you
Here's a 2009 foto calendar, in PDF compressed format. Click the link and your computer will probably automatically expand the PDF. (If not, you can visit Stuffit's site and download a Windows or Mac version. The compressed file is 6.74 mb, the unstuffed calendar is 10.7 mb.)You can print the calendar on your color printer, or simply browse it on screen. The calendar is laid out in portrait format for 8.5" X 11" paper. If your screen pops up a warning, something like, "This contains an application, are you sure you want to download it?" The application is the set of PDF. Is not to worry.
http://readraza.com/2009mvscalendar.pdf.sitx
http://readraza.com/2009mvscalendar.pdf.sitx
Here's hoping you get all the books and toys your heart desires, and lots of pleasant surprises! See you next week.
mvs
4 comments:
That's some funny, Sedano.
You're still a contender.
Keep it up in 09.
"I saw Mommy kissing you underneath the mistletoe that night. How was I to know Dad was wearing your suit? "
This will have to be anonymous due to the subject matter. You will know who I am when I tell you that I appreciate your thanking Santa for Virginia. Yes, there is one.
Somehow, I'd gone through my entire life without understanding the song, "I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus." Christmas wasn't much of a spiritual holiday for me. I attended a church with three gods, father, son, and the ghost. How important could it be, I wondered, if it's the birth date (incorrect) of only 1/3 of the trinity? What about God's birthday and the ghost?
As a result, I was able to ignore a lot of the annoying aspects of the season. But that song always bothered me. I couldn't imagine my mother kissing Santa Claus, an obese, lout, smelling of alcohol; something I knew from first hand experience. This began haunting me at about age 6 then transformed into a post Oedipal seasonal torture, quickly buried by mid teens.
It was suppressed until a year ago when I chastised a guest, automatically, with 'Stop singing that damn song!" He said, "Why?" I explained my trauma, etc. and was corrected in my guests leering tone -- "That wasn't Santa, you fool! It was your daddy." I recovered quickly and said, "Well, that's nearly as bad!"
I'd forgotten the whole sad story until I read your line, specifically this fragment, "...underneath the mistletoe... " I thought, if Santa kissed mommy "underneath the mistletoe" doesn't that imply an intentional act on the part of mommy! What a gift you've given me.
Great story! and the calendar will be put to good use.
Anon.
PS. This is why I find Halloween the best of all possible holidays!
Thank you for Viginia, indeed! Sorry to re-traumatize you about the salacious Santa and the straying housfrau. I apologize to the lil six year old on behalf of the tin pan alley drudge who produced the lyric. Do a Google and damned if you'll find the lyricist's name! Is that poetic justice, or is it just us?
To the other Anonymous, you wuz my brudder, Louie, I coulda been a contenda instead of a bum which is, let's face it, what I am. I think that's what Kazan wrote, que no? They say the memory's the second thing to go...
Feliz año nuevo. Note the ~ .
mvs
I'm cured. The pic & photo of long gone song-writer Tommie Connor did it. Totally demystified. The check is in the mail doctor:)
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