Dear Mrs. Claus,

After many years of unrequited present receiving, I am finally aware of my misdoing. My fealty resided in the wrong Claus beneficiary, and I can only offer my irrevocable condolences for such a misstep. I know who wears the big red pajama jeans up in the North Pole, it’s you, it’s always been you.. 

So I’m sending you this lovely letter to unburden my wish list for this Whoreliday Season. After a year earmarked with saintly deeds, alcohol induced revelations, and high-fiving hobos that look like Jesus, I truly believe I deserve a sizable endowment in return. 

Besides the usual request for a yacht-ful of cash, as well as my own yacht aptly named ‘The H20 Commander’ or ‘Water, You My Bitch Now’, I have a few other prezzies in mind…The cold winter nights have left me chaffed and chapped, and instead of using a heater or wearing a onesie, I prefer a more creative heat source like a friendly Bengal tiger to cuddle with or a comely NFL player whose sole purpose is to embrace me as I succumb to melatonia. 

I would also like to be awarded with my very own Party Rock crew, much like the eccentric pop sensation LMFAO. It is very important that my gang of degenerates retain a constant blood alcohol level of .2, have matching tribal face tattoos, and be entrenched in glitter from every conceivable angle. 

Finally, I want you to hide a walkie-talkie in Broncos’ quarterback Tim Tebow’s bedroom, so that I can pose as Jesus and prank call him at all hours of the night. I will of course conduct my pranks with integrity, because I dare not mock the devout…

I’m already waiting patiently under the boughs of a synthetic Christmas tree for my gifts. I’ve also fedex-ed a Yule Log-shaped dildo to the North Pole as a token of my appreciation for all the gifts I fully expect to receive.

Mistletoe gropings and kisses,

PSFU