The request will ring a bell with some regular readers. But, in my defense, Santa has a reputation a guy who can deliver.
Dear Santa:
I know this is selfish. But, remember, you can’t spell selfish without elfish.
All I want for Cwistmas is foe our foe-yeaw-ode gwandson nevow to be able to pwonounce his Ls and Rs. That way he can continue live in a state of perpetual cuteness that, for a too-brief period in our lives, is making Christmas shine for us all.
Now, Santa, it would be altogether fitting and proper at this point for you to raise your eyebrows and call out to Mrs. Santa: “Honey, how do you spell Wackadoodle?”
But hear me out.
First, the lad’s doing just fine without those pesky letters. To wit (or at least half-wit): His favorite donut has spwinkles. The two pweschool girls he’s been most taken with are CWO-wee and E WIZZ-a-beff.
And, really, what could be more darling?
Pius, he just wives glam crackows’.
And, before you ask, as a responsible grandfather, I do plan introduce him to the complete, unabridged works of Elmer Fudd.
I also promise that he’ll have full and unfettered access to the alphabet’s remaining 24 letters, which amount to more than 92 percent, an A-minus on a bad day. Also, if you want me to teach him those weird letters they use in Russia, just a tuck a bag of wooden blocks with the Cyrillic alphabet on them beneath the tree.
(I’ll not say nyet and don’t think he can.)
Know, too, that in granting my dearest wish, you’ll be helping to ensure the boy a better life -- one in which he will never be able to become “piwate” for rather obvious weasons.
On the plus side, It would seem natural for a child who has a keen interest in wailwoad twains to develop a later interest in one of America’s greatest authors, Mark Twain, though I admit Sam-you-owe Wanghorne Quemens might be a mouthful for him.
And, though it’s a long shot, wouldn’t you just love it if he ever did manage to attend and pronounce Lollapalooza.
A final thanks, now, for all the years you left me those lovely lumps of coal.
As you can see, I’ve learned my lesson.
Your pal, Tommy
P.S. Not to belabor things, but do note that, in this time of inflation, I’m not asking that you go to the expense of providing dental implants so he can have his two fwont teeth. He doesn’t need them to wish a Mewwy Cwistmas.
Now, hoping against hope that Santa is suffering enough brain fog to choke all that down, we’ll turn to the music, which is just one tune this year.
Here’s the back story: Although Grandma and I sold our horse and buggy on Etsy this year and have hung up on half of our former friends by fumbling our smart phones, we still have a land line – plus a rotary phone hanging from a post in the basement, in the event of the apocalypse (regular, zombie or gluten-free).
If you will, gather friends outdoors, where you can recognize them without their masks, and sing along.
The 12 Scams of Christmas
On the first day of Christmas, my land line scam-med me with an extension on my car warranty.
On the second day of Christmas, my land line scam-med me with two time shares and an extension on my car warranty.
On the third day of Christmas, my land line scam-med me with three French scams, two time shares and an extension on my car warranty.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my land line scam-med me with four calling Kurds, three French scams, two time shares and an extension on my car warranty.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my land line gave to me: five gold rings (I simply provided my bank account number …..) four calling Kurds, three French scams, two time shares and an extension on my car warranty.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my land line scam-med me with six cheats -- just sayin’ -- five gold rings; four calling Kurds, three French scams, two time shares and an extension on my car warranty.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my land line scam-med me with seven swans a swimming (after I bought the pool for them to swim in), six cheats -- just sayin’ -- five gold rings four calling Kurds, three French scams, two time shares and an extension on my car warranty.
On the eight day of Christmas, my land line scam-med me with eight maids a-bilking, seven swans a swimming, six cheats -- just sayin’ -- five gold rings, four calling Kurds, three French scams, two time shares and an extension on my car warranty.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my land line scam-med me with nine felons fencing, eight maids a-bilking, seven swans a swimming, six cheats -- just sayin’-- five gold rings, four calling Kurds, three French scams, two time shares and an extension on my car warranty.
On the 10th day of Christmas, my land line scam-med me with 10 sudden hang-ups, nine felons fencing, eight maids a-bilking, seven swans a swimming), six cheats -- just sayin’ -- five gold rings, four calling Kurds, three French scams, two time shares and an extension on my car warranty.
On the 11th day of Christmas, my land line scam-med me with ‘leven IRS-ers, 10 sudden hang-ups, nine felons fencing, eight maids a-bilking, seven swans a swimming), six cheats -- just sayin’ -- five gold rings, four calling Kurds, three French scams, two time shares and an extension on my car warranty.
On the 12th day of Christmas, my land line scam-med me with 12 scummers scumming , ‘leven IRS-ers, 10 sudden hang-ups, nine felons fencing, eight maids a-bilking, seven swans a swimming, six cheats -- just sayin’ --five gold rings, four calling Kurds, three French scams, two time shares and an extension on my car warranty.
I know that lasted about as long as the delta variant. Thanks for your patience.
Now, I want to wish you all you all a merry white, black, brown, multi-ethnic, multi-cultural, LGBT, Festivus, Kwanzaa, Hannukah, Diwali Christmas – along with all the others variations I have left out.
Because while I don’t long for the return of the phrase “peace on earth, good will to men (only),’ I think an exhaustive list of our many-ness must be balanced with a faith in our essential oneness.
That oneness exists in hope, which I consider to be as divine gift as I can image to creatures like us who our lives in the shadow of the cold, hard truth of our mortality.
That hope is offered to us at a time of year in this hemisphere when the days have grown short and cold. It allows us to be warmed by one another’s smiles good wishes and presence spelled without the “ts” ending. It’s reminder that, from here on out, the days will grow longer and warmer.
The most distilled, if haunting, expression of that I’ve experienced of that came years ago and returns every time I watch reruns of the Tom Hanks, Steven Spielberg series “Band of Brothers,” when, from their hiding places in a dense forest cover, the heavenly harmonies of German soldiers at the Battle of the Bulge extended like a warm blanket of blessing over the American forces half-frozen in their foxholes on Christmas eve through the evergreen words of “O, Tannenbaum.”
I’ll leave you with that and a 4-year-old’s heartfelt wishes for a Mewwy Cwistmas.
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