Making a List
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Ah, Amazon. Fucking Amazon. It’s so easy to make a wish list and email it to all of your friends and family. Here’s mine, in case anyone wanted to buy me a present. You click the link, find something that’s under ten-bucks, enter your password, and commit to the purchase. You don’t even need to know my address. It’s that fucking easy.
Every December I get the emails from Amazon telling me my sister or Robin or one of my boys have updated their wish lists. And every year I go and measure-up how much this person’s worth to me, and I buy them something. It’s a Christmas List broadcast to everyone in the world…
Except for Santa.
What the fuck happened to Santa? At what point was he cut out of this gift giving process?
“But Jason, Santa doesn’t exist.”
Bullshit. I tell you what – it isn’t common sense that convinced me to buy a Coach bag for Robin last year despite the fact that it wasn’t on her wish list. It was some portly mother fucker with a red nose whispering shit in my ear. That son of a bitch spends my Christmas bonus every year. Santa exists, ladies and gentlemen. He’s planted in our heads at a young age and he lives there until we die. He’s your guilt, your need to be loved and accepted. So when you’re making your wish list this year, before you click “send”, look north, tell Santa you’ve been a good boy or girl, and ask him to get you everything you want.
I don’t kid around when it comes to Santa. I never did. I don’t care how your opinion towards me is changing right now but the day someone told me Santa didn’t exist was the first day I said, “bullshit.” My parents, my scraping-to-get-by-working-two-jobs parents, didn’t buy a complete series of Star Wars figures and put the time and effort into tying them all to a string that I pulled on Christmas morning, causing the figures to erupt from the side of the couch in a ball of wondrous goodness. That shit was Santa, and nobody’s ever going to convince me otherwise.
And even when I knew Santa wasn’t a physical person that came in through our window because we didn’t have a chimney I still wrote a list for him and handed it off to my parents. Because I knew my parents couldn’t afford a Gameboy but Santa – that evil, conniving, overgrown elf – sure as hell would convince them to do it.
So I made a list. I said, “Dear Santa, I’ve been real good this year. I did good in school and I was good to my mom and dad. I don’t curse at my mom like Tony and I don’t do drugs like Rafael, and I don’t shoot at people on Halloween like that crazy-ass Jamaican Dexter over on Columbia Street. Please bring me a Cobra Terrordrome.” I always made sure I was writing that letter so that it channeled Santa through my parents. Roughly translated it said, “Dear Santa. Please appreciate the fact that I’m not a douchebag like every other kid in this neighborhood. I have a future. I’ll make money. And when you get old, I’ll put you in the retirement home that doesn’t feed you dog food.”
Make a list. Put it in an envelope. Address it to, “Santa Clause; North Pole.” Hand it to my parents. Smile.
Robin’s my primary Santa now – she gets the Amazon wish list. Before I click, “send,” however, I look to the north and say, “Santa – I’ve been a good boy this year. I haven’t cheated, I haven’t taking advantage of you while you were drunk, and I paid for that vacation you loved. Here’s my list.”
I hope you all start doing the same. It’s time to bring Santa back to Christmas.
Every December I get the emails from Amazon telling me my sister or Robin or one of my boys have updated their wish lists. And every year I go and measure-up how much this person’s worth to me, and I buy them something. It’s a Christmas List broadcast to everyone in the world…
Except for Santa.
What the fuck happened to Santa? At what point was he cut out of this gift giving process?
“But Jason, Santa doesn’t exist.”
Bullshit. I tell you what – it isn’t common sense that convinced me to buy a Coach bag for Robin last year despite the fact that it wasn’t on her wish list. It was some portly mother fucker with a red nose whispering shit in my ear. That son of a bitch spends my Christmas bonus every year. Santa exists, ladies and gentlemen. He’s planted in our heads at a young age and he lives there until we die. He’s your guilt, your need to be loved and accepted. So when you’re making your wish list this year, before you click “send”, look north, tell Santa you’ve been a good boy or girl, and ask him to get you everything you want.
I don’t kid around when it comes to Santa. I never did. I don’t care how your opinion towards me is changing right now but the day someone told me Santa didn’t exist was the first day I said, “bullshit.” My parents, my scraping-to-get-by-working-two-jobs parents, didn’t buy a complete series of Star Wars figures and put the time and effort into tying them all to a string that I pulled on Christmas morning, causing the figures to erupt from the side of the couch in a ball of wondrous goodness. That shit was Santa, and nobody’s ever going to convince me otherwise.
And even when I knew Santa wasn’t a physical person that came in through our window because we didn’t have a chimney I still wrote a list for him and handed it off to my parents. Because I knew my parents couldn’t afford a Gameboy but Santa – that evil, conniving, overgrown elf – sure as hell would convince them to do it.
So I made a list. I said, “Dear Santa, I’ve been real good this year. I did good in school and I was good to my mom and dad. I don’t curse at my mom like Tony and I don’t do drugs like Rafael, and I don’t shoot at people on Halloween like that crazy-ass Jamaican Dexter over on Columbia Street. Please bring me a Cobra Terrordrome.” I always made sure I was writing that letter so that it channeled Santa through my parents. Roughly translated it said, “Dear Santa. Please appreciate the fact that I’m not a douchebag like every other kid in this neighborhood. I have a future. I’ll make money. And when you get old, I’ll put you in the retirement home that doesn’t feed you dog food.”
Make a list. Put it in an envelope. Address it to, “Santa Clause; North Pole.” Hand it to my parents. Smile.
Robin’s my primary Santa now – she gets the Amazon wish list. Before I click, “send,” however, I look to the north and say, “Santa – I’ve been a good boy this year. I haven’t cheated, I haven’t taking advantage of you while you were drunk, and I paid for that vacation you loved. Here’s my list.”
I hope you all start doing the same. It’s time to bring Santa back to Christmas.
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posted by Jason at
12:07 AM
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