Let’s have a chat, Santa. Your cheerful persona is starting to become a burden for me.
In order to maintain the illusion of your existence, I find myself trapped by my toddler’s unreasonable whims. Every time we step into the magical realm of Target, every dazzling item transforms into something we must “ask Santa for.” If I fail to deliver these treasures from “Santa” come Christmas morning, my child’s entire childhood will be shattered, leading her down a dark path. All thanks to you.
So here’s the deal, Santa: you owe me quite a bit of cash. I’m seriously considering booking a flight to the North Pole to collect my dues.
We both know that you’re just a mythical figure who doesn’t contribute anything, but my wide-eyed child believes in your unrealistic magic. She thinks you can magically produce cookie-decorated keyboards and Barbie dolls. Meanwhile, I recognize you as just another way for kids to squeeze us for more plastic nonsense under the guise of “holiday cheer.” Luckily, my kids have yet to discover the wonders of devices like the iPod touch or Wii U—now that would be pushing it, Santa.
And let’s talk about your one-day-a-year appearance—seriously? You hire down-on-their-luck individuals to impersonate you at shopping centers worldwide. Couldn’t you find a few respectable folks with white beards who don’t smell like a cocktail of sewer water and cheap wine? Every time my daughter sits on one of those laps, I feel like I need to scrub her down with disinfectant afterward.
It’s outrageous that you lounge at the North Pole all year, partying with your elves while I’m stuck managing your gift assembly line. Not only do you ignore the lists—let alone check them twice—but you also don’t bother with the shopping or paying for the items kids request. Yet, come December 25, you magically appear, gobble up my cookies, and take all the credit.
Really, Santa? I had to scour every toy store just to find that limited edition dollhouse my toddler was convinced she needed from you, and you can’t even chip in for it? This is absurd. You must have some sort of secret deal that lets you enjoy the perks of gift-giving while the rest of us do all the hard work.
So, Santa, I want my money back. And while we’re at it, how about a pony? I’ve always wanted one of those.
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In summary, Santa’s carefree lifestyle while I do all the heavy lifting is not just unfair; it’s downright ridiculous. It’s high time he stepped up and shared the load.