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Dear Santa,

It’s been almost 365 days since I wrote to you and I want to begin by telling you that the gift you brought me last Christmas just didn’t cut it. I don’t know where you picked
up that lousy sun shades. I guess it was silly of me to expect someone like you to know anything about sun in the first place.

Before I give you my wish list for this Christmas, I’m sure you want to know whether I’ve been naughty or nice. I’ve been extremely nice, Santa. I’m on your side, Santa, that’s what I want to say. I don’t agree with the U.S. Surgeon General, who believes you’re fat and unhealthy and a poor role model for kids. You’ve always been a good role model for me, Santa. At dinner time, when I’m trying to decide whether to have another slice of pizza, I always ask myself, “What would Santa do?” And then I eat five more.

I also disagree with the people who want you to stop saying “Merry Christmas” because it might offend people of other religions. It’s so easy to get offended these days, Santa. I
could get offended every time someone says “What’s up?” to me. Frankly, Santa, I’m getting old and there’s nothing up anymore. Well, aside from my cholesterol, that is.

Listen, Santa, I’d prefer it if you didn’t say “Happy Holidays!” That’s just so dull and insipid. Instead of that, why not say “Merry Christmas!” to Christians and “Happy
Diwali” to Hindus? And if you’re not sure if someone is Christian or Hindu, just say, “Merry Chriswali!”

I’m running out of space, Santa, so I’d better start my wish list. The first thing I’d like this Christmas is a full tank of gas. It’s getting too expensive to drive my car. I wish the gas station would change its name to “Exxon Bank,” so I wouldn’t feel so bad about depositing all my money there.  (If you can’t afford to get me a full tank of gas, then just bring me an electric or hybrid car, Santa. Perhaps a Lexus that I can drive all the way to Texas.)

I’d also like one of those things that young people wear on their ears. I think it’s called a cell phone. Actually, I’d like two of them, Santa, one for each ear. That would make
it easier for me to talk to myself. Frankly, Santa, I don’t know whom all those young people are talking to. I wish someone would call me – other than that darn telemarketer in Bangalore.

I’d also like a blackberry, Santa. Perhaps an apple too. They’re not for me, Santa, they’re for my nephew. He’s always asking for fruit. I asked him if he likes any vegetables and he said something about “black-eyed peas.”

I’d also like one of those musical devices. I think it’s called an iPod. I could buy it myself, Santa, but my wife might object. I’d prefer to just say “iPod” to her, without having to say “iPaid.”

Finally, Santa, I’d like a pair of glasses. One for wine and the other for beer. I don’t usually drink, Santa, but I have a feeling my wife will – as soon as she sees the latest deposit slip.
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