The following message is currently in the “Draft” folder of Gmail account “email@example.com.” It was originally typed in 2005, and has been revised every December since. As of this posting, the email has yet to be sent.
Hey there, folks. Hope your day is going well. I’d like to take a moment to get a few things off my chest.
I originally started this gig out of boredom. Being stuck at the North Pole doesn’t allow for many diversions. So in order to get out of the house from time to time—and I guess, try to help the world become a better place—I decided this would be a nice thing to do for a bit. I certainly didn’t expect the overwhelming response I received, and I was pleasantly surprised that people wanted more, so I was happy to repeat my efforts for a few more years.
Since that time, however, the world’s population has grown to over nine billion. While my workshop was more than suitable in the beginning, every year I’m now forced additional space, and subsequently am required to hire more elves in order to keep up with demand. Do you realize how hard it is to find an elf? If you don’t believe me, go try and find one. Then, out of the small selection you have, try and find some who are competent and/or sober enough to produce toys for every child on Earth! On top of that, they always want more benefits and, of course, are constantly bitching about having to work over the holidays. Man, I really messed up when I determined that would be my employee of choice.
Finding the elves isn’t the only issue, I also have the damn reindeer. Yes, the sad truth is they have to be replaced every so often, and unfortunately, reindeer don’t instinctively know how to fly. They have to be trained. And if anyone thought breaking a horse was tough, trying convincing a reindeer he has the ability to take flight. I’d rather attempt teaching a flea to play the violin. And poor Rudolph, I don’t know how much longer I can keep that cover story going about his “red nose.”
Also, out of all of us mythical characters, I’m the only hard worker in the lot. St. Patrick has it easy: just pour a few beers, toss back a couple shots, and everyone loves you. The Easter Bunny has no issues since he doesn’t have to give out individualized gifts, only eggs. And the Tooth Fairy, that lazy douche, convinced parents that they should be the ones putting the money under the pillow; they do all the work, he gets all the credit. And doesn’t have to spend a dime!
And would it really be the end of the world if I moved to a warmer climate? I understand the lore of the Christmas wonderland that is the North Pole, but after a while, it becomes a bit unbearable. I was born up here, and like many people, just didn’t initially have the balls to leave my hometown. And now it apparently would break the hearts of everyone if I, say, wanted to live under palm trees in the Caribbean. “It just wouldn’t be Christmas,” they say. Well, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m sick of having to wear three coats and two pairs of long underwear just to take my dog out for a piss.
Please know that I hate to be a complainer, but damn it, I think I’m entitled to it at this point. All I ever hear is “Gimme Gimme Gimme.” But what about me? What about my desires, my hopes, my own holiday celebrations? For the love of God—and isn’t that what this holiday is really all about?—at least give me a few years off. Maybe take a bit of time to figure out how to better manage this ever-expanding situation. Please, this is all I ask.
P.S. No more cookies.