Dear HotNamma
(Did we get your name right? Oh, nevermind.) Us elves over here at Santa Central have decided that your request gets some special attention, as we have detected that you are not actually within the usual age cohort of our preferred clients. Nor does it seem to us that you have been particularly good this year, but we’ll let that little fiction slide for the moment, as quite frankly, nor are most of the ignorant little shits we have to bestow gifts upon. Apart from that, this is also dependent on the precise definition of ‘good’, a point which varies a lot amongst those queried: someone once said something about the goose and the gander, we believe, which was obviously a complete crock. They obviously never had the pleasure of spening a very isolated week with Baby Spice, a ten foot python, and a very large bottle of baby oil… No matter, let us proceed to the meat of your request.
In line with our recently-adopted anti-wastage program, all short-lived electronic gadget fads are off-limits, so there will be no Treo bloody Apple Newton substitute in your stocking this year. We shall endeavour to meet your needs with the far more friendly pen and paper system that did our fathers proud for millenia, because we all feel that the Filofax is about due for a revival.
A new Mac! What happened to the last one we gave you? the Colorbook 180c was a stunning machine, and like all computers, it should have been good enough for at least 15 years. We mean, we are still typing this on a Color Classic, and no amount of spilled coffee (not that ersatz Starbucks or Gloria Jean’s stuff, but the real North Pole Blue Mountains deal, brewed by a brother gnome from the hills of Rome) has managed to kill it yet. Of course, 4MB RAM has its limitations, but we know that any more and you’ll be tempted to spend all your time looking at RealMen.com or Nekkid.Firefighters.org, won’t you?
As for a year’s worth of facials, refer to the inequities of men and women’s appetite for pornography alluded to in the previous paragraph. You did say this was an adult letter, didn’t you? The rumour that it is good for the skin is exactly that, a rumour, although we would be happy to help you research that further if you’d send us a few photographs of your self in suitable undress…
A car and winter clothes? Hey, we’ll send you a plane ticket to Tahiti instead. that’ll solve about five of your listed six requests at once. No trains or busses to worry about, no snow, no need for a wardrobe that’s bigger than your wardrobe, and you’ll also be that much closer to Japan. and the best part of that is, there’s not much call for politician interviews either. You can just make them up (we’ll include a 19.8 baud modem for a dial-up connection so you can stil lodge your daily dose of politic-real-speak with your editor) like most real journalists do anyway.
Remember, all trips to Japan come at a cost, which is: once there, you 'll understand how people can live packed together like sardines and actually get along in peace and harmony and with a quiet devotion to the aesthetics of modern life that make Martha Stewart seem like a well-meaning elephant herder presenting her annual dung-sculpture award, and thus make you cry about the rest of the cities in the world, the oft-praised beauty of Chicago notwithstanding. Are you prepared to sacrifice your future dignity for that brief moment in the Rising Sun? We think not, so you’ll get nothing, and be happier for it, trust us.
A personal chief? you did say you wanted to get married. If you wait long enough, the incumbent Mrs Claus is getting a little unsteady, and we’re sure the bitch’ll ‘fall’ into the christmas cookie oven one of these years, if we learn to push together, boys! Then, we dare say for a woman of your Talents, Mr. Claus will be a pushover. Urm, an easy takedown. Urm, he’ll be available. OK?
Can we be more fair than that? 'Course not.
As for the small plastic tree squeezed into the corner of the apartment, well, geez, thanks for the effort. Don’t worry, all the presents we intend to have sent your way will definitely fit. Just don’t sweat the milk thing, he prefers single malts.
Yours truly, the Collective.
PS. we don’t do dogs. Some of the reindeer have been known to, though, especially Rudolph, the pissed bully.