Go away. Come again another day.
Just make sure to wash the sock afterward.
I’m sure you’ve never heard that one before. All you kids these days with weird-ass names like Rain and Blue and September Breeze. You should see the shit that’s on my list. Your parents are assholes for naming you after Jesus piss. That’s the sort of shit that gets people on the naughty list. Not like your parents weren’t already on it, sorry for the image. It’s good to hear from you. I’m glad your laptop is virus-free. That malware scanner I gave you last year is doing its job I see. My apologies for all the updates. If you’re good, I’ll send you version 6.0.4. Big bribe, huh?
Not sure if the “How are you?” in your message was rhetorically courteous, but I’m going to spend the rest of this letter answering that question. Didn’t know you were opening the Pandora’s box, did you? Never know what I’m going stick under your tree.
Anyway. Lo were the days my work was done up north. I miss it in a way, like an unwanted dosage of commercials between episodes of your favorite sitcoms. After too many years of channel flipping, fast-forwarding live television and snoring through clever insurance ads with talking lizards, you start to miss seeing ads for over-the-counter sleeping drugs. That’s where my profession lies now. Stuck in an ephemeral realm of nostalgia and ill-conceived abandonment for infrastructure. Moving south was a challenging experience for all of us, especially the Mrs.
My reindeer are long gone, turned into Christmas sausages I suppose, maybe sent to a glue factory, I’m not quite certain, nor do I wish to be. Amazon Marketplace is my new means of delivering gifts. Kids send me their virtual shopping carts now. All I have to do is punch in my credit card number.
The ice down here is sub-par and there are no colorful lights from the aurora borealis. The snow doesn’t glisten quite the same nor is the work anything close to satisfying. I miss my underpaid midget minions especially. The crafty penguins I have aren’t quite the same. They’re just slaves with white collars and lack the ingenuity of my past workers. Their flippers are annoying, always clapping on the inadequate ice, their beaks are stupid and I don’t respect them, like women. CEO Santa sold his sleigh for a server farm. Damn connection rates are through the roof. I don’t get out much. I don’t get to paint upon the canvas of the sky. Metaphors and shit. We don’t even have a legit pole down here. Where’s a Merry Christmas for the Big Man when the Mrs. can’t even do her routine?
I’m sorry, Rain. You’ve always been a good boy. No obscenities on your Facebook Timeline. No porn on your Tumblr. Although you’ve been trolling with Hitler jokes on YouTube, I’ll cut you a break because I’ve really enjoyed your Instagram this past month. I apologize your virtual cows for that new farming game came in late, so I’ll send one of the birds to create a bot-net for your Twitter following.
Hopefully that satisfies all your wishes. If not, CC my executive penguin in the response. The stupid bird will take care of it.
Happy Holidays, Rain. Hopefully you freeze and turn to snow for the season.
The South Pole Santa