A CREDULOUS CUSTODIAN CREMATES CHRISTMAS

Dear Santa, You’re Less Interesting than a Can of Fanta

I’m growing tired of your propaganda, so I’m reaching for the Mylanta.

Dear Santa,

It has just come to my attention that one of my nearest and weirdest has invited you to Christmas this year.

I don’t want to spoil their Christmas so I thought perhaps we should try for some sort of reconciliation.

In all honestly, when we first met, you were already quite old so I just assumed you’d be dead by now. I wouldn’t say I’m disappointed, but there are definitely some issues we need to work through.

First, the misogyny, you sexist old pig. Calling every woman you meet a ho is just not on. Walking into a room and going “ho, ho, ho” is just so offensive, it feels like you’re stuck in the 20th century. Ringing your bell at the same time gives the whole thing a sinister witch trial vibe. It’s got to stop.

As for the company you keep, I have my doubts about those reindeer. While I’m sceptical about the bestiality rumours, hanging out with that old lush Rudolf and a North Pole Dancer is hardly signaling family values.

I’ve never understood the red suit. However, now that I know how the thin mints are made, I’m going to guess it’s all about hiding the blood stains.

What with the whole grinding up of Girl Scouts, the labour exploitation of underage elves and the whole “come and sit in my lap, cutie” routine I can’t believe you haven’t been reported to Child Protection Services yet.

We leave a glass of milk out for you every year, you ungrateful sod. Stop breaking into the liquor and stealing the kahlua. You’ve been lucky so far that the noise hasn’t woken the kids.

OK, I can appreciate that all the preservatives they put in the mince pies these days isn’t good for your gut biome. Keeping your weight under control is a challenge, a challenge that exacerbates the difficulty of the coming down the chimney routine. That you’ve adopted kicking in the backdoor as an alternative is just downright rude.

I’m particularly disappointed by your decision to get into bed with Elon Musk to rebrand Christmas as Xmas. Disappointed, but not surprised.

If you think you’re going to turn up on the day and side with Uncle Doug in an attempt to ruin my day with your petty arguments, I’ve written a song for that eventuality. There’s a link at the bottom, if you know how to use a computer that is. Unlikely.

Don’t even get me started on the quality of presents I’ve received over the years. In no way do I think they’re proportional to how good I was, yet I see a strange correlation between the quality of gift and how broke my parents were at the time. Were you trying to assert some sort of socio-economic judgement there? You fascist!

On second thoughts, I think I’m just going to skip Christmas this year.

I really hope I didn’t get your grotesque, gin blossomed nose out of joint with any of this.

All the very best, Robbie.

PS: You really need to get a beard trim you uncouth slob.

PPS: Here are the lyrics to my wonderful new Christmas song

Apologies to Mark Suroviec, M.Ed., this didn’t turn out to be as family friendly as I was hoping for.

Apologies to Ann James also. Not exactly sure what I’m apologising for, so just consider this a general, all-purpose, getting-out-of-a-bad-situation apology which I’m happy for you to redeem at your leisure.

You have just passed another Deluded Custodians Monthly Challenge.