Deer Santy Claws,
How's ever thang up there in the North Pole? This here's Sonny down here in the south. The only pole I thank we have down here is a few miles down the road at the Kitty Kat Klub. I thank one of yer girlie elfs is hoochie coochie dancin' on it. She works the morning shift down there 'cause the manager says she is way too freakishly short to be dancin' after high noon. Anyhow, I really wish you didn't live up north. I just can't stand yankees.
The reason why I am rightin' you this letter is 'cause I just can't make Christmas good for my boys this year. And I got a bone to pick with you about last year, too. My boys, Rip and Zip, the Siamese twins are gettin' on up in years and they are a-wantin' bigger stuff that I just can't afford. With this here Obama economy, my yard sale entrepreneurin' is a little stagnate to say the least. The boys really have too much stuff already but they just keep askin' for more. They got a bootlegged cassette tape of Taylor Swift (I know it's Devil music but they are little rebels), they got a fake silver stud piercing in their common tongue and for their birthday I let 'em go play on the swingset down at the park across the street from my favorite waterin' hole. I even ordered a real expensive shot of liquor to toast their birthday. All of this prosperity they got and they still ain't happy. If you ask me, I thank they're gettin' kinda uppity.
But I can't let 'em down for this Christmas in the year of our Lord 2000 and 9. I asked 'em one day when I was drunk what it was that they want for Christmas. Well, they'll be fifteen before you know it so they want the bigger thangs now. They says, "Daddy, we want a digitized calculator." Whoa! Yeah! You heard me right, Santy Claws. A fancy digitized calculator! I don't thank they understand that money don't grow on trees. That's a pretty tall order to fill even for a yard sale entrepreneur like yers truly.
I was hopin' this year would be my breakthrough year for the yard sellin' business. But thanks to them yahoos up there in yer neck of the woods (Washington, DC), the hole market has done crashed. So I'm countin' on you to supply one them fancy digitized calculators. Rip and Zip have been good boys this year. The only instance we had with 'em so far is listenin' to that old Devil music like Taylor Swift way too loud. You should see 'em, Santy Claws! When that Swift gal gits to howlin' real high and annoyin', ol' Rip and Zip gits to bangin' their head against the linolium floor and flickin' their pierced common tongue around like that ol' Gene Simmons feller. Now, we're all still livin' with Brenda Sue and my 1/4 brother Floyd (twice removed). And Rip and Zip's galivantin' kinda gits on their nerves since they are still newly weds and all.
And that's another thang. Brenda Sue and them don't have no chimley for you to slide down when you come. You'll have to pick the front door lock or just kick in the door. It's real easy either way. Some of them guest workers that live in our trailer park have done it several times this year. When you come in, that'll be me sleepin' on the couch in the livin' room. Rip and Zip will be sleepin' with Brenda Sue and Floyd in the back room. Try to be real quiet because they ain't got a door back there. They only got a bed sheet strung up in the doorway. And that bed sheet's paper thin. Some nights, I can hear my ex-wife Brenda Sue and my 1/4 brother Floyd a-wrasslin' around in there for what seems like two or three minutes on end. I don't see how them boys of our's sleep at all with all that ruff and tumble horseplay goin' on in there 'cause they're right in the thick of thangs.
And don't worry none if you don't see the Christmas tree at first. It'll be sittin' on the bar that divides the kitchen from the livin' room. It's one of them three and a half inch deals that you have to put batteries in before it lights up. If it ain't lit up, don't worry none. It just means the batteries done wore out or Brenda Sue got 'em out to put in her neck massage wand. (Brenda Sue and Floyd sure uses that thang a lot at night. If they had that Obama insurance, they could just go to the chiropractor with all them neck problems and they wouldn't need to swipe the batteries out of the Christmas tree).
Well, I'll sign off for now, Santy Claws. I know you got a lot of toys to make and all. I hope we'll see you this Christmas here at Whisperin' Pines Trailer Park. That'll be our address of residence. Just don't let that go no further than me and you though. I thank the law is lookin' for me and they sure don't need to know my "whereabouts." I learned that big fancy legal word from them cop shows on the TV. Anyhow, I just want you to know that I ain't emotionally scarred or nothin' that time I saw you and my mama wrasslin' around in the floor on Christmas Eve when I was just a little ol' boy. I thank I just turned 27 or so that year.
Yer Friend,
Sonny
P.S. Whoop some them little ol' elfs for me!