A hearty "Seasons Greetings!" from the North Pole!
You all know that I'm kinda busy this time of year, so I'll cut right to the good stuff. Firstly, we've got plenty of Furbys, so don't worry. But just a heads-up: Kids who haven't played with their Tickle Me Elmo dolls since last January aren't gonna get a Furby. Secondly, there was a nasty rumor going around on email--something about a site showing Furbys in "perilous" situations. Well, when I got wind of the whole thing, I did some hacking and yes, it's true. I found a very naughty site called Assassinate Furby, with quite a bit of animated mayhem perpetrated on the helpless little child's toy. All I can say is: I love it! Wait till you see me slam-dunking 'em down chimneys.
To all the boys and girls that asked for trips to Disneyworld--once again, demand has far surpassed supply. As an alternative, I'm gonna suggest Alien Abductions, Inc. Remember the scene in Close Encounters of the Third Kind where Richard Dreyfuss runs outside, hands coated with mashed potatoes, a crazed look in his eyes, and cries to the heavens, "What is it?!" Seems AAI has the answer. Offering several different alien abduction scenarios--basic, group, and weekend retreats--AAI instantly transforms you into a cool little Mulder or Scully. They even include a tasteful front-yard crop circle, which tells all your neighborhood playmates that they've got a friend with some serious radioactive potential. Trust me, kids, the whole thing kicks Space Mountain's butt.
[Note to parents: Look, I'm awfully sorry about what happened last year. We had no idea until it was way too late that Elf #432 replaced all the copies of Green Eggs and Ham with Aphrodite, Isabel Allende's new book on culinary aphrodisiacs. It'll never happen again! Promise! It turns out that #432 was a temp-worker who had one of those Amazon.com affiliate sites. He thought that Allende's book had a good shot at being Oprah's next literary pick and he was just trying to cash in. I take full responsibility for the mix-up and, again, offer my sincerest apologies.]
Hey kids, listen: After downing a six-pack of Tapioca Pudding Pops, wait at least an hour before going to sleep or you'll have some serious nightmares. Scout's honor. Recently I had a doozy that was like a cross between Mutiny on the Bounty and a bad Tarantino flick! Mrs. C. suggested I check out The Jung Index to deal with my overactive subconscious. Seems that good 'ol Dr. Jung believed that all dreams shared certain archetypal symbols which resonated in global cultures, a phenomenon he dubbed "the collective unconscious." Fortunately, an angry elf (played by Samuel L. Jackson) sporting a Glock 9-millimeter is not one of those archetypal symbols, so I figure I'm off the hook.
Next, I'd like to send out a big "Thanks a bunch!" to all you boys and girls who write to me each year with tons of really interesting questions like "Is there a boiling temperature for oil?" and "What is the meaning of life?" and "What is sound? And why is it so noisy?" It's wonderful to know that besides asking for toys you kids also see me as a source of eternal wisdom. That touches me right here. This year's really popular question seems to be "Should I get a nose job?" Well, a visit to Online Surgery, the plastic surgery network, might help you answer that question for yourself. But just think about this: Where would I be if Rudolph got a nose job? They'd probably be peeling me off the side of the Sears Tower. 'Nuff said.
Next topic: the NFL referees. C'mon zebras, get the calls right! On Xmas, you're gonna find your stockings stuffed with high-powered hearing aids and thick, government-issue corrective eyewear. And don't come crying to me about your gifts, there's a full-blown public outcry about the whole deal. Mrs. Claus bookmarked Fans for Instant Replay the other day and I've been checking the site regularly. Rants, news links, polls, petitions, and slow-mo screen-captures--these boys are on top of their game. Everyone knows Christmas-time is prime-time for NFL football. So don't screw it up or I'm gonna tell the networks to switch to hockey...
Finally, I've got some major news: I'm retiring. That's right--no more frostbite, no more back strain, no more sled-takeoff whiplash. The arctic geological expedition told me last night that I'm sitting on top of about 50 million barrels of crude oil! I'm gonna be the next John D. Rockefeller. Before big government busted up his company, Standard Oil, on some trumped-up monopoly charges, Rockefeller was pulling down over 90% of the U.S. oil market. Now that's a business! And things are looking good for up-and-coming tycoons like myself. Exxon just bought Mobil, thus forming the biggest, baddest service-station company on the planet. I figure I've already got the North Pole market covered. In three months I'll launch a Web site, then go public. Ho! Ho! Ho!
Well, it's getting late and I've got to make a list. Check it twice. The whole nine. So that's it for this year. Remember, kids: sweep the fireplace, if you leave cookies, make 'em chocolate-chip, and don't try to catch me on one of those Web-cam thingamajiggers--that's good for at least five years of nothing but coal and Alanis Morrissette CDs.
Be good,
Santa
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