What I don’t want for Christmas
Dear Santa,Since I’ve been a relatively good boy this year and not done anything too outrageous, I have a few suggestions for Christmas. Unlike most people that write you, however, I’m not going to tell you what I want because I’m one of those people for which it is easy to buy. No, this year, after being inundated by enough Christmas ads to make me feel as if Christmas is now a desperate race from bankruptcy for most retailers, I’ve compiled a list of things I definitely don’t want to see under my tree or in my stocking hung by the chimney with care.First off, I don’t want anything to do with our fine government’s senior prescription drug plan. Now granted I’m not old enough to apply this year anyway, but with the size and scope of this mess that our lawmakers created so they could give the drug companies billions in free money, this mess will still be around for years after I reach the age when I can get sucked into this vortex of bureaucracy.With more than 40 choices in drug companies and reams of incorrect information sent to seniors in the last year, this program has to be worse than getting coal in your stocking.
And Santa, if you can help it, please don’t bring me the new Celine Dion coffee table book.This monster of a tomb – titled “For Keeps” – contains photographs of such Dion mementos as her announcements, invitations, family pics and personal notes. It even has a photograph of a report card from grade school.Of course I understand there are a lot of Dion fans out there that are salivating at the thought of receiving this book, and I’m the kind of guy that feels that whatever floats your boat is fine with me. But I have to say that if I find this obnoxious present under my tree, and I open it to see the gargantuan picture of Celine Dion peaking out at me, well, I’ll puke.If you could also skip any kind of video IPod I’d appreciate the thought. It’s not that I wouldn’t want one of these wonderful gadgets, but, unfortunately, they make me feel old because I can’t see the screen.
Ever since my eyes did the splits leaving me with the need to stretch my arms as far as they can go to read a newspaper, it kind of makes those teeny, tiny screens impossible to view. Even with, God forbid, bifocals.And please Santa, don’t bring me a Lexus. Sure, there would be all kinds of jumping and screaming on my part when I first opened my gift. And yes, when I slid into the plush seats I would almost be weeping with pleasure. But it wouldn’t be long after that until the yelling started. The first time my wife mentioned that I needed to put the kids’ car seats into the back, it would start. “Don’t open those peanuts,” I would yell. “No juice boxes,” I would shreek.Eventually I would get cited for child abuse because I wouldn’t let my kids eat or drink in my car, and if you live in the mountains any trip is a long one.
So Santa, please don’t bring me a car this year.In the end Santa, I know you know what I want. And now that I’ve given you just a few suggestions on what I don’t want I hope it makes your job easier.Yours truly,Andrew
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