Dear Santa,
Per the agreement stipulated in Fisher v. Claus, 1986, I am sending you this letter through our attorneys.
I must say, after all these years, it is hurtful that I am still barred from sitting on your lap. Perhaps not as hurtful as your face when your beard caught fire at the time. I maintain that was an accident for which there is no evidence that I was responsible. A lot of kids carried lighters in the 1980s. It was a different time.
Not to relitigate our dispute, but you are the adult who consistently put me, then a child, on some arbitrary list that caused me emotional and physical stress.
I mean, c’mon: What does “naughty” even mean?
Somehow, normal, high-spirited behavior became criminalized, like the incident with the supposed 7-Eleven robbery. How that store clerk could mistake an obvious toy gun for an actual one is the real question. He was blindfolded.
Your star chamber of pointy-eared inquisitors was free to attribute even freak accidents to my doing, and I had no way to refute their bogus charges. Frogs explode all the time in nature. Haven’t you ever heard of spontaneous combustion?
I never got any sort of hearing, also known as “due process” here in America.
Instead, every Christmas Eve, you gave all the other children their hearts’ desire, and I got diddly.
The other kids in my neighborhood got all manner of Transformer robot things, Star Wars alien whatnot, baseball-type equipment. But when you came down my chimney, did I get the complete works of Machiavelli I asked for? Or the Attila the Hun action figure, or a crossbow with real bolts?
No. I got coal.
And for the absolute last time, I did not turn on the gas fire in the fireplace on Christmas Eve in 1983. It must have been the dog, who, as you know, sadly exploded.
But the past is past, and my attorney assures me that the terms of your implied contract with Christmas celebrants around the globe allow me to make this list. And you, as the party of the second part, are obliged to check it. Twice.
As you will see in the attached evidentiary finding, I have been good this year. Or, at least, the New Hampshire Attorney General’s Office found I didn’t do anything actionable that can be proven in a court of law.
And so, under the precedents set by Virginia v. Santa Claus in 1897, I present my Christmas wish list, which I think you will find is pretty modest:
- A gold-plated Ferrari. Just kidding. Who do you think I am, the owner of a charitable Concord casino
- Former Sheriff Mark Brave’s little black book. (It’s for a friend. I swear.)
- A viable alternative political party in New Hampshire state politics. It’s just dull covering the GOP majority at this point. (Have you met any New Hampshire Republicans?) I know that’s a big ask, but since you’re a magical Christmas elf, asking you to find electable liberals in New Hampshire is the most realistic plan available.
- A judgeship. It’s like a license to do whatever you want! Must be nice. If you can’t swing that, I’ll take one of those no-show jobs in the New Hampshire Democratic Party. One of the spots where no one cares if you ever win anything. Chairman’s job would be fine, I guess.
- Access to the Claremont School District’s bank account. It’ll be years before they figure out if there’s cash missing, and it’s not like they’d spend it on anything productive.
- A .38 Colt Detective Special. Just like Sipowicz.
- A guarantee that New Hampshire will never legalize marijuana. I don’t really have a moral problem with weed; I just hate hippies.
- This may be beyond even your powers, but maybe we could finally get [expletive deleted] cell service in this granite-covered state?
- Oh, and world peace. Why not?
So there you go, Santa, that’s my Christmas wish list. And in keeping with our legal agreement, I will strive to remain qualified for the “nice” list for the next 12 months.
Or at least until the midterms.
Signed,
Damien Fisher
