I don’t know how Santa finds time during this, his peak season, to read my humble musings (unless he has a surplus of elves helping him this year),but apparently he manages. Not only that, but he has found time to respond to two of my recent tomes in which I happened to mention him in a manner to which he has, for some reason, taken exception.

I refer, for the benefit of you unfortunates who have been less than assiduous followers of my every posted thought, to the posts of November 15 (PHOBIAS, SCHMOBIAS) and December 14 (THE AGE OF INNOCENTS). In the former, I used the term “Santaclaustrophobia,” and in the latter, I inferred there is some question as to whether the old boy even exists.

Now, far be it from me to purposefully offend the old fart with the beard-over-belly that shakes like a bowl full of jelly, but — well, out of respect, perhaps I should address the sainted fat man directly:

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good boy this year — no, wait. Wrong year. I was re-living December 1942.

Dear Santa,

I am in receipt of you recent elf-mail threatening to leave a lump of coal in my Christmas stocking unless I apologize for certain inflamatory remarks in my posts of 11/15 and 12/14. Ho ho ho. That’s a good one, Santa — always making with the jollies. Surely, you can’t be serious.

Dear Santa,

Just got your second elf-mail telling me not to call you Surely. Ok, OK, I’m sorry. I apologize for everything. Now, about my Christmas wish list, how about making me rich and famous? If that’s too much to ask, I’ll settle for Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night.



P.S. “You can’t fool me — there ain’t no Sanity Clause.”