Dear Santa

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Dear Santa,

You must be surprised that I’m writing to you today, the 26th of December. Well, I would very much like to clear up certain things that have occurred since the beginning of the month, when, filled with illusion, I wrote you my letter. I asked for a bicycle, an electric train set, a pair of roller blades, and a football uniform. I destroyed my brain studying the whole year. Not only was I the first in my class, but I had the best grades in the whole school.

I’m not going to lie to you, there was no one in my entire neighborhood that behaved better than me, with my parents, my brothers, my friends, and with my neighbors. I would go on errands, and even help the elderly cross the street. There was virtually nothing within reach that I would not do for humanity.

What balls do you have leaving me a f**king yo-yo, a stupid whistle and a pair of socks. What the f**k were you thinking, you fat son of a bitch, that you’ve taken me for a sucker the whole f**king year to come out with some shit like this under the tree. As if you hadn’t f**ked me enough, you gave that little faggot across the street so many toys that he can’t even walk into his house.

Please don’t let me see you trying to fit your big fat ass down my chimney next year. I’ll f**k you up. I’ll throw rocks at those stupid reindeer and scare them away so you’ll have to walk back to the f**king North Pole, just like what I have to do now since you didn’t get me that f**king bike. F**K YOU SANTA. Next year you’ll find out how bad I can be, you FAT-SON-OF-A-BITCH.

Sincerely,
Little Johnny

‘Twas the Day After Christmas

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‘Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house,
Every creature was hurtin’, even the mouse.
The toys were all broken, their batteries dead;
Santa passed out, with some ice on his head.
Wrapping and ribbons just covered the floor, while
Upstairs the family continued to snore.
And I in my T-shirt, new Reeboks and jeans,
I went into the kitchen and started to clean.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the sink to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the curtains, and threw up the sash.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a little white truck, with an oversized mirror.
The driver was smiling, so lively and grand;
The patch on his jacket said “U.S. POSTMAN.”
With a handful of bills, he grinned like a fox
Then quickly he stuffed them into our mailbox.
Bill after bill, after bill, they still came.
Whistling and shouting he called them by name:
“Now Dillard’s, now Broadway’s, now Penny’s and Sears
Here’s Robinson’s, Levitz’s and Target and Mervyn’s.
To the tip of your limit, every store, every mall,
Now charge away–charge away–charge away all!”
He whooped and he whistled as he finished his work.
He filled up the box, and then turned with a jerk.
He sprang to his truck and he drove down the road,
Driving much faster with just half a load.
Then I heard him exclaim with great holiday cheer,
“Enjoy what you got. . . . . .you’ll be paying all year!”

You Didn’t Win the Hallowe’en Costume Contest Because…

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  • The Bride of Frankenstein had big, pointy hair and a small, round ass, not the other way around.
  • ‘Cause you should know that wearing a white sheet in Atlanta could only lead to getting your ass whupped, Homeboy.
  • Your “Naked Linda Tripp” costume is actually more nauseating than scary.
  • Your “Yanni” costume got you beat up on the way to the party — four times.
  • Your Dirk Diggler costume is merely embarrassing now that your “Diggler” is stuck in the car door.
  • Your beret falls off every time you kneel.

  • Yellow Homer Simpson makeup? Check.
    Can of Homer Simpson “Duff Beer”? Check.
    Homer Simpson pants? DOH!!!!

  • No one can tell whether you came as Abe Vigoda or Marge Schott.
  • This year’s guest judge, Elizabeth Dole, has apparently never even *heard* of Marilyn Manson.
  • Much to your surprise, three other people came dressed as Nikola Tesla, father of alternating current.
  • The judges wrongly interpreted your “Liposuction By-product” costume as a “Bowl of Tapioca Pudding” costume.
  • The only song you knew to go with the costume was “Mammy,” and the judges at the NAACP party were not impressed.
  • *Nobody* likes a farting clown.
  • After your roommate insisted on being the front legs, you began to suspect that a burrito dinner wasn’t such a good idea.
  • Your “Ally McBeal” barfed in the judge’s trick or treat bag.
  • The Nike swoosh — while obscene to some — is just not all that scary emblazoned on a white sheet.
  • “Hey! Blue dress with a stain and a cigar! Why didn’t I think of that??”
  • Somehow your Snoop Dog costume just didn’t go over that big at the Quayle house.
  • Your kindergarten students failed to see the humor in your “Road Kill Barney” costume.
  • Unlike thousands of other Monica look-alikes, the semen on your dress is not *really* the President’s semen.
  • Although your “Internal Bus Architecture of the Intel Celeron Chip” costume was a big hit with the other engineers at the office, things are different out in the real world.
  • You can’t get the zipper on your Bill Clinton costume to stay down.
  • Looks like “Viagra Man” will be spending Halloween in jail for indecent exposure.
  • Something in her eyes tells you there was an inherent flaw in your plan of dressing up as the hostess’s dead husband in order to get laid.

20 Ways to Confuse and Upset Santa Claus

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  1. Instead of milk and cookies, leave him a salad and a note explaining that you think he could stand to lose a few pounds.
  2. While he’s in the house, go find his sleigh and write him a speeding ticket.
  3. Leave him a note explaining that you’ve gone away for the holidays. Ask if he would mind watering your plants.
  4. While he’s in the house, replace all his reindeer with exact replicas. Then wait and see what happens when he tries to get them to fly.
  5. Keep an angry bull in your living room. If you think a bull goes crazy when he sees a little red cape, wait until he sees that big, red Santa suit!
  6. Build an army of mean-looking snowmen on the roof, holding signs that say “We hate Christmas” and “Go away Santa.”
  7. Leave a note by the telephone telling Santa that Mrs. Claus called and wanted to remind him to pick up some milk and a loaf of bread on his way home.
  8. Throw a surprise party for Santa when he comes down the chimney. Refuse to let him leave until that huge cake arrives.
  9. While he’s in the house, find the sleigh and sit in it. As soon as he comes back and sees you, tell him that he shouldn’t have missed that last payment, and take off.
  10. Leave a plate filled with cookies and a glass of milk out with a note that says, “For The Tooth Fairy. :)” Leave another plate out with half a stale cookie and a few drops of skim milk in a dirty glass with a note that says, “For Santa. :(“
  11. Take everything out of your house as if it’s just been robbed. When Santa arrives, show up dressed like a policeman and say, “Well, well. They always return to the scene of the crime.”
  12. Leave out a copy of your Christmas list with last-minute changes and corrections.
  13. While he’s in the house, cover the top of the chimney with barbed wire.
  14. Leave lots of hunting trophies and guns out where Santa’s sure to see them. Go outside, yell, “Ooh! Look! A deer! And he’s got a red nose!” and fire a gun.
  15. Leave Santa a note explaining that you’ve moved. Include a map with unclear and hard-to-read directions to your new house.
  16. Set a bear trap at the bottom of the chimney. Wait for Santa to get caught in it, and then explain that you’re sorry, but from a distance, he looked like a bear.
  17. Leave out a Santa suit, with a dry-cleaning bill.
  18. Paint “hoof-prints” all over your face and clothes. While he’s in the house, go out on the roof. When he comes back up, act like you’ve been “trampled.” Threaten to sue.
  19. Instead of ornaments, decorate your tree with Easter eggs.
  20. Dress up like the Easter Bunny. Wait for Santa to come and then say, “This neighborhood ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

Christmas Controversies

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  • CONTROVERSY: Should the tree be real or fake?
    YUPPIE: Live tree, planted after use.
    MALE: Fake tree, discarded after use.
    FEMALE: Grow tree in house, adorned with fruits
    REALITY: Fake tree stays up until May, adorned with fur balls.

  • CONTROVERSY: Should tree lights twinkle or stay constant?
    YUPPIE: Each bulb blinks to its own random rhythm.
    MALE: Bulbs flash logo of football team.
    FEMALE: Elegant flickering candles.
    REALITY: Tree bursts into flames, burns house down.

  • CONTROVERSY: Should tree be topped with an angel or a star?
    YUPPIE: Gender-neutral angel; no submissive female stereotype.
    MALE: Blonde angel, kneeling, in a wet T-shirt.
    FEMALE: Authentic angel explains true meaning of Christmas.
    REALITY: Hell’s Angel steals the tree and the gifts.

  • CONTROVERSY: Do you fling or hang tinsel?
    YUPPIE: Empower each strand with/self-determining skills.
    MALE: Six large clumps of tinsel on front of tree.
    FEMALE: Each icicle hangs like strand of spaghetti.
    REALITY: More icicles on floor than on tree.

  • CONTROVERSY: Do you open gifts on Christmas Eve or Morning?
    YUPPIE: Gifts opened on posted, individual schedules.
    MALE: Anytime, just so it doesn’t interfere with football.
    FEMALE: Anytime the entire family is present.
    REALITY: Doesn’t matter, everyone’s peeked anyway.

The Singing Parrot

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A few days before Christmas, a man enters a pet store looking for a unique gift for his wife. The store manager tells him he has just what he’s looking for! A beautiful parrot named Chet that sings Christmas carols.

He brings the husband over to a colorful but quiet bird. The man agrees that Chet certainly is pretty, but he doesn’t seem to be much for singing.

The manager tells him to watch as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. The manager then clicks the lighter and holds it under Chet’s left foot. Immediately, Chet starts singing; “Silent Night, Holy Night.”

The husband is very impressed with Chet’s singing abilities and watches as the manager moves the lighter underneath Chet’s right foot. Chet now starts to sing “Jingle Bells, Jingle All the Way.” The husband says Chet is perfect and that he’ll take him. The husband rushes home to his wife and insists upon giving her this wonderful gift immediately.

He presents Chet and starts to explain the parrot’s special talent. Demonstrating, he holds a lighter under Chet’s left foot and the bird sings “Silent Night.” He then moves the lighter under the right foot and Chet lets loose a round of “Jingle Bells.” The wife is absolutely impressed, and with a mischievous grin asks her husband what happens if he holds the lighter between Chet’s legs instead. Curious, the husband moves the lighter between the bird’s legs, and the bird begins to sing…”Chet’s Nuts Roasting on an Open Fire!”

Cat-Mas Season

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Cat-mas season is here. This is a wonderful time of year when the humans decorate the home for us cats in anticipation of the visit from Santa Claws. The tree went up yesterday, and so did I. Made it to the fourth branch within the first five minutes before the Big Owner chased me out of the tree.

So, as I do every year, I waited and watched the humans decorate the Cat-mas tree with all sorts of what the humans call “ornaments.” I call them “cat toys.”

Ornaments are invitations to a cat, bright and shiny spheres just daring a cat to knock them off. Every year the humans hang the ornaments a little higher out of my range, forcing me to elevate my game to knock them off. Humans “ohhh and ahhh” as they decorate the Cat-mas tree. I salivate in anticipation of the night’s activities.

The humans retire to bed, as is custom during Cat-mas season, leaving me to play with my tree. Tonight is a challenge, the ornaments are at an all time high. I crept under the tree and began to scale branches. This is great! A tree in my own home, why don’t they do this year-round? Five, six, seven branches, I climb like a pro. Ten, twelve, I am half way to the top, and there is the first ornament! This is easy as Cat-mas fruitcake.

I make my way down the branch approaching the first ornament. It lightly jiggles as my weight causes the bough to bend. Almost there! One paw away and I feel a shudder. Something is not right, I begin to lose my balance. The room is tilting! No, the room is not tilting, the Cat-mas tree is falling! It seemed like forever as the tree leaned, then pitched, and finally crashed to the floor in a resounding bang of exploding bulbs, ornaments, and broken limbs. I quickly extricated myself from the splintered tree just as the Big Owner game bursting in snapping on the lights. There I was, sitting next to the tree, as innocent a look on my face as any other in the household.

“What happened?” he growled. Not a peep from me, I turned and looked at the tree. “I guess we hung too many ornaments on one side of the tree,” I heard him say later as he hoisted the mangled Cat-mas tree back into place.

“Good answer,” I thought. The Big Owner staggered off to bed, and I retreated to the living room. Maybe I’ll tear down those stockings that were hung by the chimney with care.

It was good day.

From the Cat Diary
Copyright 1999 Mark Mason All Rights Reserved

‘Twas the Night Before Cat-mas

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‘Twas the night before Cat-mas and all through MY house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…(I ate it).
My kitty stocking was hung by the cat door with care,
In hopes that Santa Claws soon would be there;
The humans were nestled all snug in their beds,
While we cats in the darkness danced on their heads;
Big Owner in his “sleepy’s”, and me his loyal cat,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap,
When out in the ‘hood there arose such a clatter,
I sprang to four paws to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Eating curtains and shades (I threw up the sash).
The street lamp outside shined eerily below,
Maybe two cats fighting? Paw to paw, blow-by-blow?
No, wait! What my sharp kitty eyes should detect,
But a miniature cat box, and that Devonshire Rex.
A little old driver, all hairy with paws,
I knew in an instant it must be Santa Claws.
More rapid than hairballs his coursers they came,
And he howled, he meowed, he called them by name;
“Now, BOMBAY! now, BIRMAN! RAGDOLL and BURMESE!
On, PIXIE-BOB! on KORAT! on, PERSIAN and SIAMESE!
To the top of the fence! To the top of the tree!
My felines are awaiting, they are all purring!”
As dry heaves that before the wild furballs fly,
When he meets with an obstacle, they jump to the sky,
So over my shingles the kitties they flew,
With the carriage full of cat morsels, and Santa Claws too.
With a turn of my ear, I heard on the roofpole
The scratching and clawing of each kitty’s sole.
I drew in my head, and was spinning around,
When through the cat door Santa Claws did abound.
A long hair in fur, of course, from head to foot,
And his hairs were all shiny, well coiffured, nicely put.
A bundle of cat toys he had flung on his back,
You’d swear he was pedigree just him with his pack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! His whiskers how bold!
His cheek hairs so soft, his nose…oh, how cold!
He shed not a hair, each strand in its place
The most famous of all of the proud feline race.
The stump of some cat nip he held tight in his teeth,
Its aroma encircling his head like a wreath;
An imposing cat with the biggest belly in history,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of Friskies.
A grimalkin of breed, a right jolly old cat!
Did I say grimalkin, how could I think that!
A twitch of the whisker and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He mewed not a sound, but went straight to his work,
Filled my stockings with kitty treats; then turned with a jerk,
And laying a talon aside of his nose,
After giving a nod, out the cat door he goes;
He sprang to his cat box, to his team gave “MEOW!”
And away they all flew, like the wind they did howl.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“MEOWY CAT-MAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!”

From the Cat Diary
Copyright 1999 Mark Mason All Rights Reserved

A Cajun 12 Days of Christmas

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  • Day 1
    Dear Emile, Thanks for da bird in the Pear tree. I fixed it las night with dirty rice an it was delicious. I doan tink the Pear tree would grow in de swamp, so I swapped it for a Satsuma.

  • Day 2
    Dear Emile, Your letter said you sent 2 turtle dove, but all I got was 2 scrawny pigeon. Anyway, I mixed them with andouille and made some gumbo out of dem.

  • Day 3
    Dear Emile, Why doan you sen me some crawfish? I’m tired of eating dem darned bird. I gave two of those prissy French chicken to Mrs. Fontenot over at Grand Chenier, and fed the tird one to my dog, Phideaux. Mrs. Fontenot needed some sparring partners for her fighting rooster.

  • Day 4
    Dear Emile, Mon Dieux! I tole you no more of dem bird. Deez four, what you call “calling bird” wuz so noisy you could hear dem all da’ way to Lafayette. I used they necks for my crab traps, and fed the rest of dem to the gators.

  • Day 5
    Dear Emile, You finally sent something useful. I liked dem golden rings, me. I hocked dem at da’ pawn shop in Sulphur and got enough money to fix the shaft on my shrimp boat, and to buy a round for da boys at the Raisin’ Cane Lounge.

    Merci Beaucoup!

  • Day 6
    Dear Emile, Couchon! Back to da birds, you coonass turkey! Poor egg sucking Phideaux is scared to death ah dem six goose. He try to eat they eggs and they pecked the heck out ah his snout. Dem goose are damm good at eating cockroach around da’ house, though. I may stuff one ah dem goose with erster dressing to serve him on Christmas Day.

  • Day 7
    Dear Emile, I’m gonna wring your fool neck next time I see you. Ole Boudreaux, da mailman, is ready to kill you, too. The crap from all dem bird is stinkin up his mailboat. He afraid someone will slip on dat stuff and gonna sue him. I let dem seven swan loose to swim on da bayou and some stupid duck hunter from Mississippi done blasted dem out da water. Talk to you tomorrow.

  • Day 8
    Dear Emile, Poor ole Boudreaux had to make 3 trips on his mailboat to deliver dem 8 maids-a-milking & der cows. One of dem cows got spooked by da alligators and almost tipped over da boat. I doan like dem shiftless maids, me. I told dem to get to work gutting fish and sweeping my shack–but dey say it wasn’t in their contract. They probably tink they too good to skin all dem nutria I caught las night.

  • Day 9
    Dear Emile, What you trying to do? Boudreaux had to borrow da Cameron Ferry to carry these jumping twits you call lords-a-leaping across da bayou. As soon as dey got here dey wanted a tea break and crumpets. I doan know what dat means but I says, “Well la di da. You get Chicory coffee or nuthin.” Mon Dieux, Emile, what I’m gonna feed all these bozos? They too snooty for fried nutria, and da cow ate up all my turnip green.

  • Day 10
    Dear Emile, You got to be out of you mind. If da mailman don’t kill you, I will. Today he deliver 10 half nekkid floozies from Bourbon Street. Dey said they be “ladies dancing” but they doan act like ladies in front of dem Limey sailing boys. Dey almost left after one of them got bit by a water moccasin over by my out- house. I had to butcher 2 cows to feed toute le monde (everybody) and get toilet paper rolls. The Sears catalog wasn’t good enough for dem hoity toity lords. Talk at you tomorrow.

  • Day 11
    Dear Emile, Where Y’at? Cherio and pip pip. You 11 Pipers Piping arrived today from the House of Blues, second lining as dey got off da boat. We fixed stuffed goose and beef jumbalaya, finished da whiskey, and we’re having a fais-do-do. Da’ new mailman drank a bottle of Jack Daniel, and he’s having a good old time dancing with the floozies. Da’ old mailman done jump off the Moss Bluff Bridge yesterday, screaming you name. If you happen to get a mysterious-looking, ticking package in da mail, don’t open it.

  • Day 12
    Dear Emile, Me I’m sorry to tell you–but I am not your true love anymore. After the fais-do-do, I spent da night with Jacques, the head piper. We decide to open a restaurant and gentlemen’s club on the bayou. The floozies–pardon me–ladies dancing can make $20 for a table dance, and the lords can be the waiters and valet park da boats. Since da’ maids have no more cows to milk, I trained dem to set my crab traps, watch my trotlines, and run my shrimping business. We’ll probably gross a million dollars next year.