Liberal Utopia

What your world would be if everything liberals wanted, they got. Open the door at the bottom of its Elysium fa├žade and take a glimpse of hell.

Letter from Santa


Giving all liberals a piece of his mind—


ear Naughty Person,

The lump of coal in your stocking was put there not because I'm a big, fat, insensitive, anti-multicultural (insofar as I hire only elves), racist (insofar as I hire only elves), union-busting (insofar as I hire only non-union elves) shill for Big Coal® trying to brainwash you so you won't even consider reducing your carbon footprint.

No, that coal is just a poor symbol of the lump of flesh I see beating in your chest which you have the unmitigated gall to call a heart.

I say poor because not even coal could ever adequately symbolize such an unnaturally hard, dark deposit of fossilized plant material through which pumps the ice-congested bile that passes for blood inside your veins (most noticeably those blue ones that pop out so precipitously at the sides of your head and neck the very moment you see standing within eyeshot of the tiniest Public Space® a Dreaded Manger Scene™, immediately and invariably followed by your pouting on and on about the nation's imminent "Theocracy!").

Now before you start crying, "Where's your evidence, Santa?" — just remember: I know when you are sleeping. I know when you're awake. Do you really think feel it would be that hard for me to know, also, that you've been very, very bad? For goodness' sake! Even my reindeer have brains enough to figure that one out. And I wouldn't have to crack my whip across their hindquarters like I usually do to make them do it.

(Hey, finish this letter first before making those calls to PETA! Any more rudeness from you and you'll be bucking for two lumps of coal next year. So you better watch out.)

What did you just mumble? You say I couldn't know how bad you've been unless I've engaged in some evil conspiracy to illegally wiretap all your phone calls?

Guess who's about to go on my Double Soopur Seekrit List that I only have to check once.

Which reminds me: "Ha, ha, ha." There's no way in Girl and Boy Land any weaselly political-correctness busybody is ever going to make this Jolly Ol' Saint Nick sound like some Spineless Ol' Jellyfish. You can take away my "ho, ho, ho's" when you pry them from my cold, dead lips!

That offends your blue state sensibilities? Well, rudy toot toot and rummy tum tums. I'd wrap up a little tabbed violin for you to play that on but the only leftover instruments I've got inside this year's bag are a little tin horn and a little toy drum. You and that other busybody could use them to start a jazz duo.

Besides, blue is much too sad a color for anyone's state.

Why do you think feel I wear this red suit?

But back to your lump of coal:

By now you're probably thinking feeling I must have dynamited it out of one of my many, many strip mines close to the North Pole. (You feel I shouldn't even have one coal strip mine? Try telling that to any of the polar bears my elves have subcontracted to work around the clock in them just to meet the demand. At the prevailing wage of one fish per ton they're literally rolling in seafood, given how many of you naughty persons are out there in need of lump after lump after lump of coal.)

Speaking of food, my biggest market for this year's lumps of coal is that Isle of Misfit Nannies. I've gotten so many letters from them asking not for any little toy dolls that cuddle and coo, elephants, boats and kiddie cars too, but for me to lose a lot of weight. "Santa, oh Santa," one indoctrinatee writes, "please don't let your old arteries get all clogged up with all that sugar from those candy canes you keep enjesting (must be a British spelling)."

My second biggest market for coal is on the Idiotarian Peninsula, where many a gummit-skewl edumacator has so thought-policed their students captive audiences the latter are now telling pollsters they feel not only that I, Father Christmas, am "too fat" but that I have to putter around the world on a murdercycle!

It's obvious not one of you naughty persons has thought felt out any of this at all.

Have you ever seen the belly of someone with washboard abs shake like anything more than a thick steel girder when he laughs, much less like a bowlful of jelly?

Are you seriously proposing I exchange my eight reindeer for an eight-cylinder 4x4, and Rudolph for a pair of headlights? What do I do, shout out to each of my spark plugs, "Fire, Dasher! fire, Dancer! fire, Prancer and Vixen! Boost, Comet! boost, Cupid! boost, Donder and Blitzen!"?

Clearly you don't want someone like me. You want a thin, granola-munching, Gaia-worshiping, PC-talking Prius owner to provide nothing but unconditional public handouts to the poor (no matter how naughty) and a stern lecture about Shameful Greed™ to the rich (no matter how nice). In other words, someone who's exactly the same as all of you.

So much for encouraging diversity. There's more of it amongst my elves.

Next you'll be wanting no children having a jubilee, or building the first toyland town all around any Christmas tree.

Well, you know what? Just forget about the lump of coal. I'm not even going to give you that.

Your empty stocking is a much better symbol of that joyless samefulness you can't stand anyone not being confined to.

It and the letter you're reading now are really the only things someone as naughty as you deserves this and every other Christmas, not to mention all the days in between.

Disappointedly yours,

Santa Claus

P.S. If you caught a glimpse of me coming to town or down the chimney, don't bother filing a frivolous, harassing lawsuit. I don't accept certified/return receipt letters; nor will you find any process servers planning to make a trip anywhere inside the Arctic Circle before the statute of limitations runs out.

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