A Letter From Santa
Many years ago, at a truck stop outside Tulsa, I had the pleasure of meeting Santa Claus. Since then, we’ve kept in regular contact and, through a number of business dealings, have even grown to be friends. And he wanted me to do whatever I can about something that greatly troubles him: Those grumpy grinches who refuse to celebrate Christmas, the Jewish people.
Here now is a plea from my friend, Santa Claus. Please read it and spread its important message—before it’s too late.
Dear Jewish people of the world,
Ho Ho Ho.
Oh, let me explain: This is what I say to children and adults come Christmastime to spread cheer during my favorite time of the year: Christmas. Ho ho ho. But I’m writing so that my friend, Mr. Joe Randazzo, can maybe help convince you all to celebrate Christmas, the most wonderful time of the year.
Just the other day, Mrs. Claus and I were eating cookies and talking about snow, when we heard a knock on the door. It was a small Jewish boy named Joshua and he was very cold. You see, we live on the North Pole, and the temperature there never gets above 11 degrees Fahrenheit—that’s a method used to measure temperature. In Europe they use Celsius. I know this because every year I fly all over the world bringing toys to boys and girls everywhere but two places: Israel and the Upperwest Side of Manhattan. Anyway, this young boy was so cold and so scared and he had walked all the way to the North Pole to come see me because he wanted to meet me and Mrs. Claus and all the elves in my workshop. Elves are kind of like miniature people—you would call them ‘midgets’—who help me make toys for everyone but the Jewish people. I told him he was a little early for Christmas and he started crying. You see, he didn’t celebrate Christmas because he is Jewish. When he was born, his parents cut of the tip of his penis and now he can’t put out cookies and milk for me, Santa Claus, like all the rest of his friends. His story broke my heart. And my heart breaks more and more every year when I look at the big old list and don’t see one Greenberg or Epstein, Silver, Gold, or Weinbaum.
Won’t you make me happy and celebrate Christmas, Jewish people? Won’t you let me observe your children from afar all year long, keeping track of every ethical transgression, no matter how small, and tabulating them in my extensive spreadsheet? Won’t you let me land my giant sleigh of eight massive Arctic mammals on your roof so I can come through your chimney and enter your home as you sleep? As your children—those innocent, supple young children—sleep and dream? Dream of me? Won’t you let me, O Jewish people, place wrapped gifts under the half-living plant you’ve placed in the corner of your living room? Let me walk around your home, in the dark, in my big black boots, sitting on your furniture, drinking from your glasswear, hovering over your children’s porcelain little faces? Their chests heaving so gently up and down with each breath? Won’t you let me into your home to give you presents and stand in the hallway of your home, staring at your family photos in silence? For hours on end? Thoughtless, expressionless, motionless, for hours, in your home in the middle of the night? Doesn’t that sound like a good way to spend the holiday season?
Think about it. I will be waiting.