No. 95 "Dear Timmy."

Dear Timmy,

I received your wish list this year for Christmas, and I must say that you are asking for a fucking lot, as you haven't really done shit. I would like you to know that I send my elves (ex-cons with priors in sex crimes) to watch you and other children weeks prior to Christmas. Their notes have concluded that you're kind of a jackass. One example would be when you started a chant about a new kid at your school with homosexual undertones. Also, in your younger brother's letter, he mentioned that you tend to push him down frequently with no explanation and that you are an overall "jerk face that should receive no presents." Luckily for you, I am bound by the law to give all children (except Mexicans) presents for Christmas, so today is your lucky day. There are certain items I cannot provide, though. They are highlighted below:

Space Ship:
Do you really think I am going to give you a space ship? Get real, kid. First of all, our records show that you have little to no experience piloting an aircraft of this magnitude, since you are all of three feet tall. Your legs are far too short. Also, our research team has concluded that you have never worked for NASA like you claimed in your original letter. So, no space ship this year. (Or at least until you have 5+ years experience and are five feet tall.)

Roller Blades:
I am going to do you a favor and not grant your wish for roller blades. This is based on two reasons: 1) roller blades are really, really lame. And 2) Seriously, they're gay as fuck. At your age, you probably do not realize the repercussions of being known as "the kid that rollerblades." This stigma will follow you to high school and ultimately lead to your suicide in the 11th grade. Instead, I'll get you a bike. Nothing wrong with a bike.

A Father:
Unfortunately, the north pole cannot provide fathers as Christmas presents. Perhaps if your mother wasn't such a nagging bitch, your original father would have stayed. Instead, I will be giving you a male blow-up sex doll. It is basically the same as a father, except you can have sex with it when you get bored. If that isn't your forte, you can just clothe the doll and explain your troubles to him. He's a great listener.

Sweet Cardigan:
You're not exactly Richie Rich, moron. Actually, your family is quite poor. To properly sport a sweet cardigan, one must own other nice clothes that are not tattered or torn. Putting a cardigan over your shanty clothes will just look silly. Instead, I will provide you with at $5 gift certificate to The Salvation Army, where you can buy clothes by the pound. (Seriously)

PS3:
You will not be receiving a PS3 since you already have an XBOX 36O, and for an eight year old, are relatively obese. Instead, I will be giving you a football so you get off your ass and exercise as well as a one-year membership to Nutrisystem® so you won't be such a fat ass come next Christmas.

Hooker:
Near the bottom of your list I saw that you asked for a hooker. This I can do, as the North Pole is full of them, and rarely does an eight year old ask for one. If you could email me back the size, hair color, and ethnicity you preferred, I am sure we will be able to fit your needs. (Note: We are almost out of blondes, but have a ample quantity of economy-sized black prostitutes.)

A Dead Brother:
Your younger brother asked for this as well; except he wanted you to be the one murdered. This is a popular request among brothers your age. We do not commit, participate or plan deaths anymore. It just took the mood out of the holiday season, and at times people got in the way and things got messy. We can, however have an elf sneak into your brother's room and fondle him a bit.

Pony:
I also saw that you asked for a pony. Really? That's for girls, you homo.

The rest of the items you listed can easily be provided, as long as you stop being such a jerkface to your younger brother. Also, instead of leaving out room-temperature milk and burnt cookies, could you put out a bottle of your mom's "sad juice" (The one labeled: Jack Daniel's) and a 5 dollar footlong? That would be great. Oh, and never fucking email me again.

Love,
Santa