If Santa Was Into Satire

When I was a wee one, I used to preface my gift inquiries to Santa by politely asking how Mrs. Claus and the elves were doing. I was a two-faced little suck-up, I know. Since you’re all asking (no one is asking), this is my sassy list, no holds bar. Might as well go ahead and sign the naughty list myself.

  • A time machine. I cranked out a 25,000-word story when I was 12 and I have a 2,500-word story draft due in a few hours. I want to know my secret.
  • The canonization of all dogs, ever. I mean now that Pope Francis confirmed the status of their souls it’s only natural that they be recognized for what they truly are: saints.
  • Clint Eastwood’s son. I don’t know his name, but ever since that Taylor Swift music video I suddenly want to stomp around the African plains with highly dangerous animals.
  • A cheap black wig, an affinity for saying “UH-gain” instead of “again,” and rickety old airplane that I have no clue how to operate so I can recreate said music video.
  • A metabolism. For obvious (read: pizza) reasons.
  • Adele’s diary. Her instruction manual to life, style, and her impeccable hand motions in “When We Were Young.”
  • A lifetime supply of chocolate. That hasn’t changed at all.
  • Michael Buble’s Christmas album. On repeat. Everywhere I go. Preferably live. Ok a candlelit pizza dinner with Michael Buble where he sings his Christmas album all night long while approximately 6.5 inches of snow falls outside.
  • An increase in competent math teachers for future generations.
  • Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. I want to know what all of the buzz is about.

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