originally posted December 19th 2005
My name is Travis, and we really haven’t spoken since the “Slot Car Racing Set” incident of 1991. Honestly though, in the years prior to that, you came through for me. You and I had a good business relationship and we communicated well, if not often. I’d visit you at your grand palace in the mall surrounded by your friendly, yet distinctively smelly and diminutive minions. We’d talk about what I’d been up to throughout the year; my differentiating factors of naughty and nice (admittedly frog baseball, calling the kid next door a “fat melon head”, and setting the living room carpet on fire were chalked up to the naughty column) but our back and forth banter was a necessary part of our business relationship.
Now in 1991 I was going through, what my junior high school guidance counselor called a period of self discovery, and I started questioning our relationship. After all: You’re older than everyone I know and you surround yourself with child-sized workers and one day a year you sneak into houses in order to make children “happy”. I also started actually analyzing the songs that I had heard about you. “You see me when I’m sleeping, you know when I’m awake…” Dude, you started creeping me out. It’s not bad enough that my mom told me that every time I masturbate God kills a kitten (in 1992 I was personally responsible for the deaths of over 1200 kittens) but I also had to worry that a fat guy, with a propensity for young children, isn’t going to bring me a nintendo because I’ve been firing off knuckle children to the sports illustrated swimsuit edition.
I’m fairly certain that, due to this fact, you turned your back on me. In 1991 all I wanted for christmas was a slot car racing set, specifically the one where the track went up the wall and everything glowed in the dark. I figured with a toy like that I could goof off well into the night without my mother being any the wiser. What did I get instead? Captain FUCKING Power. You remember Captain Power don’t you? It was these toys that shot little laser beams. There were jets, action figures you put in the jets and you played video tapes where you shot at the screen and you could score points. The screen would also shoot back and whoop my non-hand-eye-coordination-having-ass. There was also a Saturday morning TV show where I could plant my little ass in front of the tube, after consuming an entire box of cocoa puffs and pop-rocks, and fight along side Captain power. At the time it was pretty cool, not a slot car racing set, but still kind of cool. Looking back on it though: Gayest Thing Ever!
Now it’s been brought to my attention, Santa, that you had nothing to do with the old Captain Power fiasco, and, as such, I forgive you. Do you hear me you Jolly Fat Bastard, I BELIEVE AGAIN. I’m still a little creeped out over the whole watching me sleep thing, but if that’s your little payback for bringing me presents, watch away you perverted rich bastard!! I’ve changed a lot since ’91 but I’ve got a great gift idea for me this year. Seeing as how I’ve developed this ever growing hate for society: This year I want a giant, destruction oriented, robot that I can drive. Not only will this make up for my lack of cool slot car race set, it will make my commute to work easier, and assist me in my plans for world domination. Here’s something I drew the other day to give you some sort of idea of what I am looking for.
Now, I’ll be headed up a fucking mountain for Christmas, I’ll be unreachable by phone, so if you could leave my killer robot, assembled, outside of my house and shoot me an email when it’s delivered I’d greatly appreciate it. I will be back in town a few days before New Years in order to hang out with Molly, Morgan, and Alan, so please try to make sure it’s delivered before then so i can take everyone for a ride. It’s good to talk to you again fat man, tell the missus I said, “hey.”
P.S. I’m off to touch myself inappropriately, can you please turn a blind eye to that? Thanks.