Dear Santa 

As you may have heard, this week marks America's most fanatic holiday, Christmas. And thanks to this one crazy day of fat stockings and fat hams, events are at max capacity (mostly because everyone feels obligated to spend their Yule week getting ready for Overstuffedmas by staying inside cooking, drinking spirits or imbibing in bubbly consumerism and materialism). That said, there is nothing happening this week in terms of music other than caroling and the possibility of a junior high school marching band practicing on your street in the a.m. Ugh and ugh. So stay inside and pour yourself a hot toddy while visions of the mall dance in your head.

In lieu of a music column, I have decided to print my letter to Santa. Call it self indulgent, but more exposure means the big red guy might actually produce this year.

Dear Santa,

For many years I have been a very good girl so you would visit my home on Christmas Day with a bunch of really cool gifts. This year, again, I have been on my best behavior: recycling, holding doors for people, laughing at my coworkers' dumb jokes. If you've heard the one about what a priest eats on Friday fifteen times, you know that's no easy task.

In exchange for my hard work, I have compiled a list of goodies I expect in return for my formidable deeds.

Santa, it's not a long list, I've only mentioned the essentials so that you can really help out this gal in need.

Though I generally don't partake much in the activity due to ADD, I am having trouble with the much maligned state of "television shows." Americans have tried recently to replicate the humor and quirk of European TV, and sadly so. (If you're American when you watch TV, what are you when you go to the bathroom during a commercial?) Across the pond in London they have TV shows like Beat the Crusher, a game show in which couples bet their car in order to win a new one. At the end of the show, the loser watches their auto get crushed into the compact size of a tissue box. That is entertainment! They also have Bouncy Weather, where a little person on a trampoline tells the climatic conditions of the country while springing to the northern areas. Meanwhile we have shows like Take My Wife, Please! and The Fattest Lardass. Why must we always be fat, gross and neurotic in the eyes of world TV? I'm losing faith, please help.

Again with the republican'ts! The blue states so nastily call us Jesusland. It's not my fault and it makes me cry. You should too, since you and Jesus are somehow related. Kissing cousins, perhaps?

And I hate Jessica Simpson. Not so much the inescapability on TV, magazines, and (Santa forbid) the radio but for the stupid tuna-or-chicken nonsense. No, I don't mean the original, pervasive comment, I mean the fact that her people (read: her dad) think that we actually think she really questions Chicken of the Sea. We're not dumb; obviously she knew because she followed up with that "What? What, is that a stupid question? Tee hee" after the idiotic comment, and we are on to her attention seeking ways. We all know that it was some off kilter second in the universe that swept her from the obvious fate as a receptionist in a chiropractic office. Can we please stop paying her attention, if only so our poor bleeding ears will never again have to see that wide-mouth, "emotive" version of "Little Drummer Boy."

And while you're at it, please rid us of her sis, Ashlee. We've got no more room for Milli Vanillis who blame it not just on the rain but on the band. Enough of the low-brow "entertainment."

Put the word "metrosexual" back to the catacombs it came from already!

Please remove all pool tables from my favorite hang-outs. I don't like it when my friends play pool; I don't play pool; it's boring.

Santa, let's bring an end to racist, (though cutely updated) spokes-creatures. I hate everything about them, and surely you, Santa, understand how unfair associations stem from such idolatry. On behalf of Aunt Jemina, Uncle Ben, Mrs. Butterworth, and the KFC Colonel who now says hip things like "boo yeah!" I'd like to request your intervention in godawful marketing. And while you're at it, bring every boy and girl a box of pancake mix. Grocery stores gouge us for this glorified flour, and every kid needs a pancake sometimes.

Merry Holiday Season, and please don't skip my house again this year.

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