NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: In case you haven’t noticed 2020 has been a real shit show. I’m so traumatized that I’ve got God on speed dial, and I’m harassing White Santa Claus every hour on the hour for what I want for Christmas. Below are a few of my petitions sent directly to the North Pole.
DEAR WHITE SANTA: All I want for Christmas is my brain back. A 72-year-old brain is not supposed to handle a pandemic, a lunatic, racist President who is destroying our country, people dying by the thousands per week—including personal friends—families being evicted on a daily basis, me unable to see friends from out-of-town and family for almost a year, threat of a civil war over to mask-or-not-to-mask, and the curse of possibly getting COVID-19 and dying from it due to my age and comorbidities. I wrestle with insomnia and my brain is threatening to leave home and not return until Jesus comes back or you show yourself to be real. I’ve never seen evidence of you in my life, you know. Remember how you never bought me one toy when I was a poor Black child—not one fuckin’ toy? I admit I wasn’t the best kid, but I wasn’t the worst either. You try growing up in foster homes and an orphanage, and see how you manage. Do I sound bitter? Maybe just a little. Well, now is the time for you to make it up to me. I want you to start giving me presents. Let’s start with my brain: I want my brain back!
Before I entered 2020, my brain was superb! I played “Hand, Knee, Foot, Canasta” every Monday with a bunch of ladies, wrote three books, and hundreds of stories and essays. Now my brain has turned to mush, and I’m sure it is due to stress. This morning, I lined up behind a man in the grocery store who looked like someone I know very well, but since I’ve never had to pick him out of a lineup by recognizing his ass, I wasn’t quite sure if it was my friend or not since we were six-feet apart. However, I prepared to shout, “Hi—Merry Christmas!” to his back through my two super-duper Israeli masks (I take no chances at the grocery store), but when I opened my mouth, I couldn’t remember his name. WTF! White Santa Claus, I panicked! I know this man very well—I know his wife even better, but all I could bring to the forefront of my brain was the first initial of his name: “B.” Any minute I knew the guy would turn around, and I’d have to address him by name. Was it Bob, Bill, Ben, Barry, Bryson, Bennett, Brandon, Beau, Blake…? As beads of sweat formed on my forehead and dripped beneath my four-ply masks, he turned around, recognized me, and I went for broke: “Hi, Brody—Merry Christmas, my friend!” My friend didn’t recoil in horror so I must have gotten his name correct. He greeted me by name (clearly his brain is still intact), and we yelled our commiserations back and forth about how we are both soooooo over 2020. Whew!
DEAR WHITE SANTA: The second thing I want for Christmas is for you to capture Donald Trump and take him back to the North Pole with you. Put him on a strict diet of no cell phone, no social media, no fast food, no sex, no sycophants, no friends, no relatives, no money, no visitors, and no red caps. In other words, put him in prison. Keep him there until he repents for the 40,000-plus lies he’s uttered, asks forgiveness to all the women he’s sexually abused, and confesses to all the crimes he’s committed. Please throw away the key.
DEAR WHITE SANTA: Another thing I could use for Christmas is for you to end 2020 the day after Christmas. Just skip to 2021. We’ve all had it with this year. This isn’t a deal breaker, but it sure would be nice.
DEAR WHITE SANTA: One more thing I’d like for Christmas: please lobotomize the MAGA people. While doing so, please clean the wax out their ears and soften their hearts to hear the true message of Christmas. (It wouldn’t hurt to glue their mouths shut!) I’m sure you’ve noticed that they have been very bad little boys and girls for the past four years and are still misbehaving to the point of trying to engage in a civil war. Ain’t nobody got time for that, White Santa. They don’t believe the pandemic is real, they won’t wear masks and social distance, they’re saying that they won’t take the vaccine for the COVID-19, and they think the election was stolen from he-whose-name-I-hope-will-never-be-spoken-after-2020. I know you tend to have a soft spot for White people, but they gotta go, Dude!
DEAR WHITE SANTA: All I REALLY want for Christmas is to hug my kids, grandson, and sister. But since I can’t, please bless our Zoom times together, and grant us much joy and laughter. I’d like to put in my “ask” for next Christmas though: May my family and I all be together in person on Christmas 2021. Amen!
DEAR WHITE SANTA: All I want for Christmas is my two vaccines. I’m following all the rules and doing all that is necessary to keep others safe as well as myself. These vaccines are my ability to see family and to travel. Maybe I’ll even come visit you, Chubby Dude—assuming you’ve received your shots.
DEAR WHITE SANTA: What I really, really want for Christmas, I don’t think you’re capable of giving me. In fact, I think even with all your good intentions, you obfuscate the real meaning of Christmas. The real hope of Christmas is not an obese White man (no offense) who sneaks into houses via chimneys, devours cookies and milk at EACH HOUSE (Seriously? you probably have diabetes something fierce), and uses reindeer-power instead of gas or electricity to get here and there. No offense, Dude, but I want the true promise of what the birth of Jesus means to all mankind: peace on the Earth, goodwill to all people, no more hunger, no more strife, love and grace to everyone, no more sadness, no more sorrow, and joy to all! If you see Jesus in your travels, please let him know that his character and name have been hijacked in 2020 to mean something other than what Christmas should be all about, and we could use a refresher course.
Eleanor Tomczyk is an author and a humorist who is an award-winning voice-over performer. In 2011, she created the blog, “How the Hell Did I End Up Here” which features mostly satirical posts that have thousands of readers around the world—although she was recently banned in Pakistan (for real!). Tomczyk’s three books were featured in a recent book festival: “Monsters’ Throwdown,” “Fleeing Oz,” and “The Fetus Chronicles—Podcasts to my Miseducated Self.” Currently in her 70s and living life like it is freakin’ golden, she is a consummate storyteller and much sought-after motivational speaker. If you don’t believe me, just ask her!
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