Dear Future Patient of the lap band procedure,
I feel that each year the weather and stars lineup just right to where we meet again. This is starting to become a showdown Kringle and each year you will go down faster than a computer at Sony. Why is it that I have to write a letter to someone that thinks that it is alright just to work one day a year? I think you sir, are hiding something and I one day will find out what it is. If we do meet face to face, I am going to make you one promise. Blitzen will become chili, and I swear I will get you to eat a bowl. That bastard of a reindeer has it coming. I guess this is the point where we do the dance. Let me just save you some time you fat bastard. I have been naughty. I want coal so I can build a fire for that moment you try to fit your wide load down my chimney. I did see something on Sex Sent Me to the ER. (I hate Richard) I may put my fire poker sticking straight up, so you impale yourself on it. I can serve up Santa on a stick or have a Hawaiian Christmas. The only thing missing would be the apple in your mouth. This is the part that I tell you what I want, but something has always bothered me. Shouldn’t you already know this? You see us when we are sleeping, and we are awake which is just plain creepy. I guess I need to refresh your mind. First up on the list, I want you to give August Dawn something very special when eat her cookies. The Clapper. I am not talking about the thing that turns on your lights either. You wear the same suit all year; I guess you have a few gifts that you can pass around. I also want the demise of Richard Pruitt, the main guy around here. I would ask you to deliver a painful death, but since I am feeling the Christmas spirit, I am asking for a more enjoyable death. I want him to receive a bowl of mashed potatoes. He is going to have to carry these spuds down a flight of stairs. At some point, he trips because the dumb ass is 30 and still doesn’t know how to tie a damn shoe. He is falling down the stairs looking like a Plinko chip on the Price is Right. He hits the floor, both legs were broken and he is not able to support all of his weight, that damn ego needs to pop. His face lands in the mashed potatoes that are loaded like a baked potato. He drown after a few hours. Once someone finds him face first in a bowl of potatoes, someone must say, should have ordered the hash browns. Simple. Make it happen. If you can’t make this happen because you have “morals” bring me that damn Slinky. Seriously, if I can’t watch Richard go down the stairs, at least I can have some fun watching a Slinky.
Figure It Out
PS. Donner taste like chicken.