Letter to Father Christmas (3)

Hey! I may not be a celebrity (suits me fine), however I still have the right to write and publish my own letter to Santa. So here comes as promised.

Dear Father Christmas,

Quite frankly, I just can't remember when was the last time I wrote you — for all that I have some doubts about the presumed authenticity of such letters since, technically, I had just barely learnt to read and write when I stopped believing in you. Why, yes, “such a wicked child she is” must have thought my parents and the lady upstairs (who was like a grandma to me) after I exposed their conspiracy and ruined their tricky attempt thanks to my intuition and unwavering rationale regarding details that should never have been overlooked. What a bunch of unprofessional liars, pff!

You see, today I'm still so bloody annoying and such a bad audience (liars are not what they used to be), and more eager than ever to expose manipulations and conspiracies. I'm not about to change! Funny thing is some, who must have believed in you until they were 10 at least, call me a conspiracy theorist. Conspiracies, my foot! Theories, my a**! Let's get practical, anytime they want! Precisely, the problem is they don't want to. They refuse to see, look, hear nor even listen. They'd rather believe in you and blame others for dishonouring your name or impersonating you. Obviously, in many cases (and as far as they're concerned), it's certainly easier to pretend to be nobody than to be someone.

So, unlike many who, as adults, still fancy you as some sort of God-like figure, to me you would be more like Ragadast the Brown minus the bird droppings. I can just imagine you appearing in the middle of the night with your Rhosgobel hare-drawn sleigh (such a great idea Tolkien should have thought of it himself) to do battle with these ill-mannered spoiled-rotten brats who won't grow up and make the world their school playground instead.

What about your colleague Gandalf the Grey (all cleared up and laundered after his mandatory step down below into the horned one's den), where did he go? We could use his expertise to make it clear to this bunch of crackpots that they shall not pass. Shoo! You, black sheep and warmongering rams, go get roasted at some lamb barbecue down below. We just would like to keep grazing peacefully anything but neon bright grass patented by Monsanto.

Sorry for the digression, Ragad... Father Christmas. According to tradition, I'm supposed to ask you something. Well, it's quite embarrassing and so personal, and my letter will be read by many people so, shh, let me whisper it in your ear... Oh, f*** it, I forgot the bloody sneaks! So let's just do as usual via good old high vibe telepathy then.

Actually, there might be one thing I would not be embarrassed to ask you publicly and that would be the same thing as Thom (please note I'm not playing goody-goody to get favours from you) and that's reading glasses — but please not the blue ones! I'd love to have the rainbow ones instead if possible with embedded decoder. I know they're not available in the shops yet, but I guess Google might have already thought of it.

Hasta la vista, Ragad... er, padre!

© La Pensine Mutine. All rights reserved. Reproduction prohibited.

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