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A not so fond farewell from Santa to ungrateful giftees
Dear Virginia,
There is no more Santa Claus. I quit. The only one showing up at your house this Christmas with a scruffy beard and a big bag slung over his shoulder will be your older brother, home from school with all his laundry from his first quarter of college.

The quacks up here at the North Pole tell me I need two new knees from all the bed-wetting kids who’ve sat on my knee all these years begging for toys they’ll never play with.

And have you seen kids these days? Do you know what it’s like to have 200 pounds of dead weight on your knee? Talk about child obesity! It’s like today’s kids have 40 pounds of marbles in their Huggies.

I’ve been thrown up on, kicked in the shins for not remembering what one miserable tot asked for and cussed out by a five-year-old for bringing underwear instead of the latest cell phone.

People think I get to go on worldwide junkets and only work one day a year, like I’m some Congressman or something. I’m sick of eating mall hot dogs and ringing a bell by some Salvation Army bucket. Do you have any idea how hard it is being at Macy’s, a parade in Peoria and a mall in Monrovia all at the same time?
Constantly being in more than one place at one time is very tiring, and now that the holiday shopping season starts in the middle of summer it’s darn near a full-time job. I’m getting too old for this.
Stop and think of the logistics of delivering toys to every little boy and girl on earth all in one night. That’s something even FedEx and UPS can’t do!

And the Post Office? You’ve got to be kidding.

And all for what? Do I get any thanks? Every year I get millions of letters asking for presents under the tree, but does anyone bother to thank me? Not one single thank-you card. NOT ONE.

And stop with the milk and cookies already. I already have four fused discs from carrying around that heavy sack and my belly that jiggles like a “bowl full of jelly.” Just once, would a nice steak and a bottle of scotch be too much to ask for? A GPS would come in really handy too this time of year, too.

I wasn’t built for modern building codes. I can’t even begin to count the number of times I’ve been cut or stuck in round fireplace inserts that people call chimneys these days. Last year I spent three hours on Christmas Eve in a Detroit jail for “breaking and entering” before I could get my lawyer to spring me.

The elves have driven me over the edge, always talking on their cell phones when they’re supposed to be working. I’ve been standing in line for months now trying to buy enough iPhones for all the six-year-olds, but would Apple even think of cutting Santa some slack?

Noooo. I could only buy two at a time just like the rest of you.
Rudolph has turned into a real prima donna. Has anyone ever stopped to think why he has a red nose? He has a drinking problem, that’s why! We had to do an intervention, and he won’t be out of rehab in time for Christmas anyway.

Keeping nine reindeer shod is a full-time job and hard on the back, and knowing the hard work that lies ahead of them every Christmas Eve, Dancer and Cupid have turned into real head dodgers when I try to rope them.

Do you have any idea how much stuff I have to shovel keeping nine reindeer in the air? I need something that can pull more weight, like maybe the Budweiser Clydesdales, but I don’t know how aerodynamic they’d be.

I’m sick and I’m tired of keeping track of who’s been naughty and who’s been nice and, besides, a simple iPad can keep track of all that stuff easier than I ever could. PETA and the Humane Society have about put me out of business, and besides, you don’t need me anymore. You can get all your junk faster from and not have to pay any sales tax.

So, I quit. Ho, ho, humbug – I’m outta here.


The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of Santa and not necessarily those of Farm World. Readers may log on to www.LeePitts to order any of Lee Pitts’ books. Those with questions or comments for Lee (or this week, possibly also Santa) may write to him in care of this publication.