Dear Santa,

(okay so I'm not the best typist in the world, and when I first wrote that I typed "Satan"...so this Christian holiday now has a whole new meaning for me).

I'll start over.

Dear S.A.N.T.A.,

My name is Nici, and we really haven't spoken since the "Play-Doh Factory" incident in 1987. But in the years prior to that, you really came through, big guy. You and I had a good business relationship and we communicated well, if not often. I'd visit you at your grand palace in the mall surrounded by your friendly, yet distinctively smelly, diminutive minions. We'd talk about what I'd been up to all year, my differentiating factors of naughty and nice (admittedly cutting the cat's whiskers, calling the bitchy retarded girl next door a retarded bitch, and blowing up numerous non-food items in the microwave and calling it "scientific study" were all chalked up to the naughty column), but our back and forth banter was a necessary part of our business relationship.

Now in 1988 I was going through, what I would like to call a period of "self discovery", and I started to question our relationship. After all, you are older than everyone I know and you still surround yourself with children, and child-size workers, and one day a year you sneak into houses in order to make children "happy".

I also started to analyze songs about you. "You see me when I'm sleeping, you know when I'm awake.." Dude, you were creeping me out. I've found out in my adult years that every time I masturbate God kills a kitten (in 1988 I was personally responsible for the death of over a thousand poor kittens), but I also had to worry that a fat guy in a red suit, with a propensity for young children, isn't gong to bring me a new Barbie because I was fiddling the bean every time Dr. Feelgood came on the radio.

I'm fairly certain that, due to this fact, you turned your back on me.

In 1987 all I wanted for Christmas was a Play-doh Factory, specifically the one that made items duplicating fast food (consider it "training to be a grown up"), and what did I get instead? A fucking Barbie dream house.

Every Saturday morning I would consume a box of Cocoa Puffs, maybe some ice cream and a Diet Coke, and haul that stupid Barbie dream house out so I could sit in front of the tv while I played. On second thought, that was a pretty cool thing to give me, but looking back.... the Barbie "dream" has ruined my life.

Now, it's been brought to my attention that you are not responsible for the "Play-doh Factory" fiasco, and I forgive you. Do you hear me you jolly fat bastard?

I believe again!

I'm still a little creeped out over the watching me while I sleep thing, but if that's your little payback for bringing me presents, watch away you perverted rich bastard!

I've changed a lot since '87 but I've got a great gift idea for this year. Seeing as how I've developed this ever-growing hate for society....this year I want a giant, destructive-oriented robot, one that I can drive to New Jersey. Not only will this make up for the Play-doh, this will also assist me in my plans for world domination.

I would also like a nap and a box of tampons for Christmas....because really, you can never have too much of either of those.

Tell the missus, "hi" for me and it's been nice talking to you again, fat man.

Sincerely,

Nic