How the heck are ya, Big Man? Long-time no write, right? Sorry, I’ve been busy being an adult.
I’m trying to remember the last time I actually did write to you. I’m thinking I was four or five, back when the world wasn’t so touchy about children sitting on the laps of strangers and sharing their deepest wishes and desires.
Please forgive me for not being in touch with you more frequently. Just because your entire persona is based on a myth, it doesn’t mean you should be ignored, especially during the time of year when you work so hard. Can I get you some eggnog? Ovaltine?
I don’t blame you if you don’t remember me. I was one of those little girls who was hard to find just the right present for.
Remember that doll baby you gave me when I was three? The one that was almost as tall as me, with the frilly pink dress and puckered little mouth that would actually take a bottle? Then it automatically wet its diaper. So many, many layers of wrong there.
Yeah, sorry; Li’l Baby Wets-Her-Pants pretty much stayed in the box she was delivered in. Just wasn’t my thing. Though these days I do enjoy an occasional bottle, but refuse to make jokes about diapers.
And I wasn’t interested in Barbie dolls, either. She was introduced to the doll world in 1959, which means Barbie celebrated a major birthday this year. She looks damn good for 60. Still mighty perky.
About the only doll, I ever played with was Barbie’s boyfriend, Ken. More accurately, I played the role of Ken when my sisters played Wedding Barbie, Malibu Barbie, or Ballerina Barbie. If Mattel had manufactured Soft Butch Barbie or Gender Neutral Barbie back in those days, my letters to you may have taken on a much different tone.
On second thought, considering Ken’s smooth-front design “down there,” maybe Ken was short for Kendall. That would mean Barbie and Ken were a toy lesbian couple that was mass-marketed by godless feminists way back in 1961 to little girls to teach them how to model a non-traditional marriage dynamic. Now there’s an evangelical Conservative fever dream if ever there was one.
But I digress.
You might remember me, Santa, as the little girl who wanted the Super Duper Blooper Gun, the archery set, and the football. Not all in the same year, of course. My last name isn’t Trump Jr.
And one year I asked you for a Slip ‘N Slide. The challenge was waiting six months until I could actually enjoy the summertime water game. Because in Ohio in December, a Slip ‘N Slide is also known as a Slip ‘N Get a Concussion on the Ice, You Idiot.
I think that was about the last time you got a letter from me, Santa. But don’t think you haven’t been on my mind, especially since the President made it safe for everyone to say “Merry Christmas” again. Whew, that was a close one. I bet you were worried that everyone who would say ‘Happy Holidays” to their friends and neighbors would eventually get you confused with the Easter Bunny and Cupid and Mohammed a leprechaun. Because, you know, slippery slope.
Admittedly, it seems crass to communicate with you only when I want something, but I have a few unusual requests this year. They’re not the kind of gifts you can put in your big Santa sack and slide down the chimney and deposit them under the tree, or picked up in a last-minute dash through Buc-ee’s.
A few of these requests are obvious: World peace. An end to hunger. Miracle-level healing for the ill. Kids released from cages — all the kids out of all the cages. Impeachment and removal. An all-musical, all singing-and-dancing episode of This Is Us. Please and thank you.
These other presents may require some assistance from your Christmas co-star, that Jesus kid from Nazareth:
• For politicians who lie and lie and lie to turn an odd shade of orange. Oh, I see you’re already on that one. Thanks.
• For U.S. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg to live happily and healthfully, forever and ever. Or, at least, to outlive Brett Kavanaugh.
• For U.S. Senator Lindsey Graham to regenerate the spine and soul he lost during this past year.
• For all my dear friends who never fail to love and support me, and who are unceasingly patient beyond all reason, to win the lottery, or receive an abundance of whatever brings each of them the most comfort and joy.
• Cher tickets.
Thanks, Santa. Be safe. And feel free to help yourself to my cookies.