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Dear Santa, I don't want socks Paul Ryan Note: This article was originally printed in The NewspaperTM - which employs me - which is why there is no profanity or mention of anal sex. Thank you.
Toys, specifically. I like toys. Things that make noise, blow up, or fly across the room are especially fun. But what if I don't get the ridiculously sickening amount of toys I desire? This is why talking to Santa was so important. Without a pep talk with Santa before Christmas, I could end up getting nothing but socks. Granted, I could definitely use some new socksÐthe ones I'm wearing have holes in them, as do the rest of the socks I ownÐbut that's beside the point. Socks aren't fun. Socks don't fly around the room or blow up. Socks are sensible. My parents are also sensible, but Santa doesn't wrap them up in a box and put them under the tree at Christmas. I had socks on my mind as I waited at Elementary School on Dec. 11. Santa arrived around 9:30 am. He laughed, gave candy canes to the children, and even read a story and sang songs with them. I was disappointed that Santa didn't enter through the chimney. I'm not sure if the elementary school even has a chimney, but he could have at least ambushed us from an air conditioning duct or something. I began to have doubts about whether this Santa was the real one. How could I be sure he was the true St. Nick, and not just one of Santa's helpers? I needed to speak to the big man himself, not an assistant. During a break between activities, I approached Santa and tested him. If I asked for something other than what I really wanted for Christmas, a helper Santa would just nod and smile. The real Santa would call me on my bluff. "Hi Santa Claus! I want a pony for Christmas, a pretty one," I said, sounding sincere and innocent. Santa looked me in the eye and raised his eyebrow quizzically. "I don't know where you'd put it in your apartment, Paul," he said. I was going to push it further and say I wanted a pink pony that can tap dance and play an oboe at the same time, but his answer made it clear he was the real Santa. There was no need for follow-up questions. I didn't tell Santa about my "no socks at Christmas" rule, because I figured if he knows the details of my lease (the landlord strictly forbids building horse stables in single bedroom apartments), he probably knows everything else about me as well.
I only hope he doesn't put me on his naughty list for doubting him. If there's one thing I need less than socks, it's a stocking full of coal.
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