Santa Blogs XXXIV

     In my previous life as a blogger, I acted as a conduit for two or three letters every year involving another individual.  I was a little surprised to be pressed into service again this Christmas Eve by some familiar sounds from the old North Pole letters column.

Dear Santa Blogs, You Dufflebag Doofus:

     I was kind of hoping, you red-coated dingbat, that the pandemic had led to your croaking, as I did not see any of your blather this time last year.  Imagine my dismay to find that you are still alive, and no doubt still spreading that ridiculous propaganda about giving used books (and postcards, I guess, to look at your present slish) at Christmas, when up to date young ladies like myself would just as soon have the latest volume of a postapocalyptic dystopian fantasy.  My parents, as you may have guessed, are still giving me books in which cute little children learn nature lessons from cute little bunnies and raccoons, until I have to crawl under the couch and look for last year’s hard Christmas candy just to get away from all the cheer.  Why a demented old guy with a dented sleigh wants to go on spoiling my holiday is beyond me.

                                                                                    Notably Mystified

Dear Not Myst:

     Not hearing for you, Sweet Sieuz, was, of course, one of the great sorrows of the pandemic.  I am so happy to learn that you have not changed an iota since our last exchange.

     Then, as now, I think the problem is simply one of your own imagination,  Too many young people today are showing themselves restricted by the edges of a screen: they cannot expand beyond what they see.  Come, Porkrind Brittle, where are your wits?  You must have seen a few of the nature documentaries which were so much in vogue a few years ago, which wished viewers to understand about death and violence in the natural world.  You can extend the story  toward what some peapods today call the “deleted true ending”.  Why it is wrong to end a story before everyone dies—as they must do unless they are Santa Blogs or some other supernatural character–eludes me, but it’s considered more authentic now to point out that happy isn’t EVER after.  Write your own Director’s Cut version of these stories, showing what happened the next day, when Dinky ran across hungry Daddy Bear in a bad mood, or ate those poisonous berries.

     How nice of you to mention the possibility of used postcards as Christmas gifts!  I have shipped off so many in the past couple of weeks that I am sure some will be found hanging on Christmas trees (though I am a bit dubious about all those outhouse cards.)  Round People cards were there, and fishing cards, and I hope all will find their proper homes (Spoiler alert: I DID ell a couple of cute puppy postcards to an address which looked kinda familiar.  Try to look surprised…or at least not nauseated.)

     Hope all your own shopping is done, and I hope everyone enjoys what you got them.  Been working on my own wish list, and I think this year I’ll go with wishing everyone a warm place to sleep where they know they’re safe: lost cute puppy or just lost soul.  As always, Not Myst, l’chaim!

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