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A Letter To Santa
by Charles W. Dowdy

Dear Santa,
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.
Signed, Timothy

P.S. A Beyblade with a Megavolt Launcher would be nice.

No, wait, scratch that . . .

Dear Santa,
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, that Beyblade with the Megavolt Launcher and a Super Game Cube Playstation Reality Center.
Signed, Timothy

P.S. I wouldnít mind if my brotherís head exploded, either.

Naah, Iím leaving too much out . . .

Dear Santa,
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, the Beyblade, the Playstation, a small explosion in the proximity of my brotherís head and a Christmas tree that doesnít look like itís wearing the remnants from a neighborhood yard sale.
Signed, Timothy

P.S. I know this blowing up my brother thing violates some aspects of the Christmas spirit, but I wouldnít be whistling every time I breathe if he hadnít pegged me with that rock. I know you saw that and probably have some intention of punishing him with the whole switches and ashes thing but he is a BIG BROTHER. So if I get all this great stuff and he gets a lump of coal, then Iím going to be missing a lot more than a couple teeth come Christmas morning. This may be a hard concept for you to follow since you seem to surround yourself with LITTLE PEOPLE, but the pictures Iíve seen of Mrs. Santa make her look like she ainít been sharing the cookies, if you know what I mean. Imagine her picturing you as a chunk of cookie dough and you might begin to understand.

No, you canít knock his wife and expect the man to bring you toys . . .

Dear Santa,
Just bring me a bunch of junk. If itís plastic and says ďMade in Taiwan,Ē then itís safe to assume I want it. I donít want you blow up my brotherís head but wouldnít mind if you permanently disabled both of his arms. This would not be that much of a loss. Sure heís fanning some guys in junior high, but the kid is right handed, will never top six feet, and that curve ball is way overrated. In a way it would be more humane to end those silly Major League aspirations now. In addition, would you please allow my parents to have some shred of class when they are putting up the tree? Just because I made a paper mache Christmas camel when I was three does not mean they have to display it year after year like it is some great work of art. Maybe you could push them in a more understated direction this year? The nine foot tree looks great out at the Christmas tree farm, not so great in our house with eight foot ceilings.
Signed, Timothy

This is getting way too involved. This is a busy man. Need something more succinct . . .

Dear Santa,
Only bring me toys made with child labor. Quite frankly, kids are the only ones who really know how to make a toy. My big brother can swim with the fishes for all I care, just get him out of the house. Send my parents and their tacky tree with him. And donít eat the cookies.
Signed, Timothy

P.S. Since itís only going to be me and you in the house some questions have popped to mind. My dad said that smell on your breath at the mall was bourbon. Is this a warm-you-up kind of thing or something more serious than that? And what kind of self respecting person lets kids climb all over them all day anyway? My Dad isnít magic and canít do a lot but heís always yelling, ďThis is my house. My house and the bankís house. Mostly the bankís house. But some of it is my house. None of it belongs to anyone under the age of six!Ē Do you own your house Santa? Does the bank? How old are the elves? And what about child labor laws? Every time my Dad gets out the lawnmower and puts us to work my mother carries on about child labor laws. Do you have those at the North Pole? Just wondering.

P.S. S. Donít eat the cookies. My brother makes them with Ex-Lax. For some reason my Dad got really angry about that last year.


Charles Dowdy is the father of four and the husband of one. Heís a freelance columnist for several Mississippi newspapers. Editors may contact him at cwdowdyjr@yahoo.com.

For more stories by Charles Dowdy, visit these USADS pages:
Goodby, Debt; Hello, Ricecakes
The Waiting Room War Zone
Small Towns & The 3 Second Intersection Rule
President Bush, Sponge Bob, and a Banana
The Twins Journal
Teeball Dad
Whatcha Doin'?
Amending the Neighborhood Constitution
Pregnant Dad
Double Trouble: Cross-eyed Twins
Hunters and Diaper Bags


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