Another great Christmas caper, finale: Santa is a dick

I've been patient, reader. I've been polite. I've been a good boy. I've been nice instead of naughty. I've been good, for goodness sake. I've held back on most of the people who have acted like jerks to me this year.* I could have written a column each day about people I hate, and the reasons why they're dumber than toilet paper with printed designs**, but I didn't, because I wanted to be a good person.

*Keyword: most.

**There's no reason to put pretty designs on something you're going to stick in the crack of your ass.

So what do I get from Santa in return for my pleasant demeanor? Nothing. Nada. Zip. All I wanted was a freakin' letter back from Santa. One damn letter. One pathetic, stinking letter, in reciprocation for the one I sent him. That's fair enough, isn't it? To expect him to shrug off his laziness and blatant incompetence for five seconds so he could send me one lousy, stupid, crappy-ass form letter where he fills in the blanks with what I asked for?

But he didn't send me a return letter. That fat, pompous son of a bitch ignored me, as if I were a trenchcoated man at a porn store. I sent him a letter on December 10, at which point he was supposed to send me one in return. These aren't my rules, people. These are the rules of the "Letters From Santa" program in the town where I work.

Many of you will say Santa knew my submission form and letter were fake, and that's why he didn't respond. But what kind of reckless anarchy of the system is that? If Santa starts picking and choosing which letters he thinks are real and which he thinks are fake, then he's taking the risk of destroying the joy of a sweet, precious child. What if my letter had been real? There would be a little kid sitting at home crying his eyes out because he'd think Santa didn't love him.

So what if my child persona liked adult videos, high-powered handguns, and excrement-related humor? I'm sure there's plenty of real kids out there who love those same things. Does Santa really think he can play God with the emotions of children? Lucifer has a fiery seat deep in the bowels of hell waiting for you Santa, you fat bastard. You're already on bad enough terms with God and Jesus H. Christ for turning a religious holiday into a gluttonous, commercialized heathen paradise. This new bit of sulfurous*** misery you're serving fresh from your frosty, jolly saucepan of unbridled paganism will only dig your stinky death hole deeper.

***The word "sulfurous" is great as an adjective. It's fun. Try it sometime.

I loathe you, Santa. Because of you, I had to write this column, instead of running an easy column with a picture of your return letter as the only content. I could be sitting in my comfy recliner watching a movie and drinking a cold beer right now, but instead I'm sitting crouched over my little desk, hacking out these bitter words to fill the space. You will not be forgiven, Santa. This little event will not be forgotten. Mark my words, Santa: next year, I'm coming to the mall to have a few words with you, and those words will not be kind ones, you dick.

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