Dec. 17 2014 11:10 AM

Find out what certain celebrities want for Christmas

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Illustrations by Lindsey Voltoline
Didja see the news about the fiery crash involving a postal truck and a large reindeer-driven sleigh on the outskirts of the North Pole? Miraculously, the truck driver is in stable condition after having been airlifted out, and no reindeer were injured. Once we learned about the accident, we dispatched a team to pick through the wreckage and salvage a bunch of letters to Santa, who was so appreciative that he allowed us to publish our favorites, plus a few electronic correspondences that he was nice enough to forward. Special thanks to our team for going above and beyond: Nathan Dinsdale, Jeff Terich, Seth Combs, Dave Maass, Ryan Bradford, Gus McShane, John R. Lamb, Peter Holslin and Joshua Emerson Smith.

Hey, hey, hey, Mr. Claus, it’s Bill Cosby!

So, in lieu of my usual Christmas sweater (trust me, I have enough) and powdered-Rohypnol requests, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to respectfully ask you for a bit more of a favor this year. You see, unless you live in the North Pole or something, you’ve probably heard that everyone thinks I’m some kind of creepy rapist. Look, just because a guy likes to have sex with unconscious women doesn’t mean he’s up to no good. I’d really like to get the truth out there, but Rolling Stone already said they’re not interested in an exclusive, so I come to you out of desperation. 

The Nick at Nite residuals are gonna dry up soon, and sales of Ghost Dad aren’t what they used to be, so I started thinking I needed a miracle to resuscitate my career. And then it hit me: A miracle is exactly what I need! So I need to know if you still have that guy Fred Gailey’s contact info. You know the guy—the one that helped you get out of Bellevue when everyone thought you were some crazy drunk in Miracle on 34th Street? If that guy can convince a judge that some bearded geezer is, in fact, Santa Claus, then surely he can also convince a judge that I’m not some sociopathic somnophiliac with serious dominance issues. Seriously, daddio, I need a legal team that would make O.J. scream, “Zip zop zoobity bop.”  

I’ll expect some business cards in my stocking. The peppermint pudding pops will be in the freezer.



Santa Claus,

So, I’m totally asking for a friend, because, ya know, only total pussies believe in Santa. And I’m not a pussy. Go ahead, punch me. No seriously, punch me! Can’t hurt steel, ya know what I’m saying? Anyway, can you do that Jedi Mind Trick thing? Except, you know, instead of the whole “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for” nerd alert, maybe, and I’m just spitballin’ here, something like, oh, I don’t know, “SHE FELL DOWN THE STAIRS… on an elevator.” Women, so clumsy, right? I mean… whooooo. Right?

Roger “The Hammer” Goodell

P.S. You’re looking ripped. No, really. Maybe we can work out together sometime. I mean, can I change my request to “two tickets to the gun show”? Psssssstttt. I’m totally fucking with you. But seriously though, you’re looking good.


Santa baby,

This is totally embarrassing but I enrolled my son into an Anti-Vax school and now he has picked up polio, yellow fever, smallpox, whooping cough, measles, lockjaw and scurvy. So, yeah. My bad. What I’d like for Christmas is the number to the nearest Rite-Aid. Do you have that handy? And maybe send a fruit basket to the Centers for Disease Control.

Jenny McCarthy


Dear Santa,

To believe that you’re real is a practice in futility—something only those with an unconscious disavow of logic and a blind adherence to misplaced divinity could indulge in. You are but a dream, a demented symbol concocted by the first monkeys who looked up into the sky and felt emotionally entitled to the concept of more. Somewhere down the line, the notions of “want” and “need” became perverted in the bioluminescent stew of man and we projected that into our dreams, dreams that end with you as the monster.

Fuck you,
Rust Cohle


Santa bud,

I have to tell you, being the biggest musician in San Diego (your loss, Jewel!) has been great. La doo da doo day ba. And getting a Jason Mraz Day this year was sweedle-dee-dee. But why stop there? How ’bout next year we get a Jason Mraz Week? Fa da da day. Or Jason Mraz Month? Shoop de doop de doop. Or how about temporarily changing San Diego County to Jason Mraz County? Mah na mah na. I think together we can make this zip a zwee dow even more ba da ba doo. You feel me?

Jason Mraz



Letter, postmarked Dec. 10, 2012

Dear Santa,

You know me. You never need to get me anything. If I want a Lotus, I’ll buy myself a Lotus. If I want a Bvlgari watch, I’ll buy myself a Bvlgari watch. If I want a district attorney, I’ll—.

Ah. Actually, there is one way you can help me. All I really want for Christmas is to see that good, strong leadership in law enforcement is rewarded in San Diego County. One problem, Santa. In the United States, you aren’t allowed to show your gratitude to police and prosecutors like you are in Mexico. This is very sad, especially for Bonnie Dumanis, District Attorney for San Diego County, who deserves so much of our appreciation.

Here’s what you’re going to do: You’ve got your nice list and your naughty list, and now you have your Susumo list, which I have enclosed. All of the names have two things in common: Each are going to show up on Bonnie’s campaign-donation reports and, in recognition of being such good, generous little boys and girls, Santa Claus is going to leave each one of them an extra $500 Amazon gift card.

You’ll also find in this envelope a small token of Christmas cheer from me to you. Just to be clear, this check for $200,000 is totally unrelated to the $200,000 you are spending on those gift cards.

Can you also send Bonnie’s staff a fruit basket? That one you can attach my name to.

Susumo Azano


Saint Nick,

I should probably warn you that I’ve written this letter in blood. Boo! Remember me!!?? J/K. LMAO. I totally had you all, like, “Whuuuuuutttt?” No, but really, I’m a totally deadly and highly contagious disease still devastating real-life people. You should probably send some gloves or moist towelettes or something to, like, Liberia. Just sayin’.

Infectiously yours,


Dear Santa,

For Christmas, we want:
• Mega Bloks. Most people prefer Legos, but we feel that Mega Bloks have a cleaner, streamlined design, and they’re definitely not as complicated.
• A DVD copy of Mac & Me. Most people like E.T., but we’re different.
• The new Interpol CD. Because they’re way better than Joy Division.
• A case of Mr. Pibb.

The developers of Ello



So I didn’t get any response from @Drake so I’m going to throw the gauntlet to you. I want @TheReal
SantaClaus to murder my vagina. #HELPMESOMEBODY


Dear Santa,

It’s been a long time since I wrote you, but I really need your help. I need to know that you’re real.

I know that you know you’re real. And I know that I know I’m real. But how can I know what you know unless I know what you know about yourself?

I know this sounds like a weird request, but everything I thought I knew seems so unknowable now.

I thought I knew Todd Bosnich and Justin Harper and Alison Rentschler, but knowing what I know now, I don’t know if they are who they say they are. I think the three of them might be six or nine or 12—at least two, if not three of each person, but maybe four.

If you could send me a few locks of your hair along with some signature samples and maybe a certified birth certificate, we should be able to clear this whole thing up.

I know I’m asking a lot, but I don’t know who else to turn to when everything seems so unknowable.

Hugs and Cookies,



AMBER ALERT for Iqaluit, Canada, and surrounding areas. Approximately twodozen bewildered children wearing pajamas were abducted last night by a uniformed man calling himself “The Conductor” whom eyewitnesses described as looking “sort of like Tom Hanks—but with a ’70s porn mustache.” The man and the children were last seen headed north on a Pere Marquette 1225 steam locomotive.


Hey, Mr. One-Man Max Capacity,

We’re hoping you can put us in touch with an agent or a Kardashian or the TMZ folks or something. We had a huge year, a lotta high-profile appearances (Ray and Janaye, Solange and Jay-Z, etc.), and what did we get out of it? Nada, my friend. If this is our time to shine, we wanna get paid, know what I mean? Hey, we’re equal opportunity voyeurs: Joel Osteen taking hookers up to his hotel room; the Koch brothers popping Mollies with Ted Cruz; like, 10,000 hours of people picking their noses; Bill and Melinda Gates having raunchy, awkward nerd sex—whatever you want, we got it.

Elevator Cameras of America


Dear Santa,

I’ll skip over my usual “war on Christmas” and Super Bowl tirades and get right into what I’ll be needing this year.

1) I need a gosh darn center that’s worth a dang! All of mine are made of glass like that Samuel L. Jackson guy in Unbreakable. I love M. Night Shyamalan.

2) A running back that’s worth a gee whiz. Between Ryan, Brandan, Donald and that scrub Danny, you’d think one of these guys would be able to take a little pressure off me, but noooooooo. They’re not big and tough like me. I told Danny that if he just accepted Jesus as his Lord and Savior, Jesus would fix that broken fibula faster than he turned water into wine, but Danny just told me, ‘Uh, gee, Phil, I don’t think it works that way.” Hogwash!

3) I need you to get the Pope to stop saying things like it’s OK to be gay. Love and marriage is between a man and a woman (or in Shawne Merriman’s case, a lot of women) and is good for one thing and one thing only: Having more kids than those frickin’ showoffs, the Duggars. Heavens to Betsy!!

4) And shoot, Claus, I sure would like some sweet new bolo ties. Kirk Cameron hit me up today and he told me we’re gonna hit up some sweeeeeeet L.A. parties when I’m playing there next year. By golly, I’m finally gonna be a star and get the recognition I deserve.

Your friend in Christ,
Philip Rivers



Great seeing you last summer in Vegas at the annual Village Council President Association retreat (your talk on “Sexy Sleigh Rides” still inspires me!). Unfortunately, I won’t be attending this year. As you predicted based on your Naughty List, Sherri Lightner and her new Republican BFFAYs (Best Friends For A Year) scrooged me big-time. One minute I’m a “no brainer” pick; the next, reindeer road apples! As a result, please disregard my previous “Wish List” request for a new gavel engraved with “To Threepeat is Keen in 2015!” Go ahead and change that to “Pound This!” I’ll be regifting it to a certain someone.

Watch your back! 
Councilmember Todd Gloria


Mr. Kringle,

Given that you’ll already be circling the globe in the wee hours with improbable stealth and speed, I’d appreciate it if you can spend a couple extra seconds discreetly switching out fuel lines in a few Chevys, Buicks and Cadillacs (see attached list of 375,000 specific addresses). You see, we can’t really afford another recall, and nobody wants to ruin Timmy’s Christmas just because he and his family might randomly be engulfed in a fiery inferno when their vehicle goes above 35 mph. OMG, right?

I’ve thrown in a Mrs. Fields gift card and a 2007 Buick LeSabre to sweeten the deal.

Happy holidays!
Mary Barra, CEO, General Motors


Hey Santa Schmuck,

Consider this a goddamn warning: If you continue with the fucking handouts, we at the San Diego Regional Chamber of Commerce will be forced to pursue all legal avenues to stop your unbridled, bullshit ability to bring cheer. You’ve seen our track record: “Bah!” to Barrio Logan and the minimum-wage hike! “Humbug!” to the housing linkage fee! Do yourself a favor—retire, take a cush $300K-a-year job on top of your pension like me and dump the fucking cookies-and-milk crap! At the very least, demand a fucking Stone IPA for the trouble of shimmying down a bullshit chimney. By the way, your elves are shitty signature gatherers—way too honest! Send more beer—chilled this time, you son of a bitch!

Jerry Sanders


Jaden Smith has invited Willow Smith to chat. Add another person.

Willow: What’s up, bro? 

Jaden: Getting ready to tell Santa what I want on Gchat.

Willow: You should write it. I’ve been writing them in novel form since I was in the womb. And then I re-read them.

Jaden: I thought Claus would appreciate something a little more current. What are letters if not just patterns of letters spread out on a page like an expanding universe.

Jaden has invited Kris Kringle to chat. This is now a group chat. Add another person.

Kris Kringle has joined.

Willow: Santa, I truly hope we’re not on the naughty list this year.

Jaden: I mean, what does it even mean to be naughty? Think of the duality of it: naughty and nice. Yin and yang. Subject and object. You can’t have one without the other.

Willow: I haven’t been naughty. I don’t even know what that means to be. If I’m to believe Rousseau and the law of conservation of mass, all of us are nice on a metalogical level.

Jaden: Yes, think of all the people we’ve inspired with our music. Surely that’s nice. All our dad ever did was “Parents Just Don’t Understand” and that “Jiggy” song. It’s all so pedestrian and imprecise.

Willow: That’s because he wasn’t at one with himself. He was infatuated with the bright lights of stardom, when all that really is or was is a holographic reality that a higher consciousness created out of its own expelled id.

Jaden: Is that what you’re all about, Santa? Someone trying to cleanse their subconscious of all its naughtiness? And they forced this ethos onto the world’s children to keep them from following a truly self-actualized path.

Willow: I’m going to write a book about it. It will be about how people should write letters to Krampus, the Christmas goatman. The one who steals misbehaving German children. Like so many, he is just misunderstood and just needs to meditate.

Jaden: Yes, we should hit up Krampus instead of Santa. Ask him to kidnap our parents so that we may be unburdened by the fallacies of stardom and finally be uplifted to a higher state of being.

Willow: Cool. Bye, Santa. Punk bitch.

Willow and Jaden have left this chat.

Kris Kringle: 


Hey, you big fat permafrost parasite,

This is your Mommy talking. SO LISTEN UP!! You like blue balls? You do, don’t you? You big, jolly, subservient piece of Tollhouse dough. I’ll give you the bluest balls ever. You really, really want to let it go, don’cha? Well, I’m going to frostbite your nipples and make you so hard you’re going to need an ice pick and crampons to climax, you dirty yellow snowdrift. Olaf is the cuckold this year and, I gotta warn you, he’s been watching Hostel, like, non-stop for months. 

Queen Elsa of Arendelle 

P.S. Same time, same place on the North Mountain. Safe word is “carrot.” 


Dear Santa,

What I want for Christmas is—wait, what’s that? No, I don’t want any pretzels, especially not any salty chips, but thanks for offering. Now, what was I saying? On my list is—well, yeah, no, I agree with you that my beaches are dope, but that’s not relevant to what I’m saying. What I mean is—dude, I’m the first to admit that these politicians are fucked-up but I just want—yeah, totes in agreement that that person who takes long showers is a little annoying but, BRO, QUIT INTERRUPTING ME! I JUST WANT A GODDAMN GLASS OF WATER!

Jesus Christ,
The State of California



How’s bout I give you gift. A photo of me, shirtless, on a horse. Real man. That is what I am talking about.

Also, 500 crates of Levi’s blue jeans.

Vladimir Putin



You have no idea how hard it is to be me. People think I’m just sitting around in a box all day, kicking back, and then, boom! Suddenly I’m perched on that guy’s dome, sitting pretty for the cameras. Noooooo. There’s a lot more to it than that. I’m dusted off at 5 a.m. every day. I go to the dry cleaners three times a week just to maintain my resilient, cotton-y brown glow. I’m always checking Twitter and Facebook. I’m at all the sound checks. I even pitched a blog to Entertainment Weekly because, obviously, I’ve had a cranial-eye view to some of the biggest industry happenings.

I have thoughts about the contestants on The Voice, too, ya know. I could totally be a judge on that show. But nobody ever wants to know what I think. To them I’m just a hat sitting on Pharrell’s head.

Well, that’s not fair. Santa, this year I want to be respected for me. I’m sick of all the Smokey the Bear jokes. I don’t want to be defined by the man to whom I’m constantly attached. I mean, come on, I’m too proportionally large for Pharrell’s head anyway! You know I’m a singer, right? Nobody can hear me, but it’s not because I’m an inanimate object—it’s because they’re not listening. I need a bigger stage. I need a record deal. With a major label. And a budget for touring and marketing.

Just give me a chance, Santa. Please. I need this.

Pharrell’s hat


Dear Santa,

We would absolutely love more drone strikes from Western forces. It’s like dates-and-honey cake for the recruiting cause. Do you know how many innocent civilians get blown to Allah every time the U.S. drops a bomb on the Middle East? We were watching Democracy Now the other day, and they totally cited a report that said that for every intended target, drone strikes kill, like, 28 other random people. Come on, big guy, make it rain.



Dear Santa,

Hey big guy [drip, drip], think you could bring me a towel? [Drip, drip, drip] Appreciate it. [Drip, drip]

Kim Kardashian’s Butt


Date: Wed, 17 Dec 2013 16:23:17 -0800?
Subject: Treat yourself to the new you
Reminder: Stow one of those FitBits away. Who’s going to miss it? Plus, you’re totally going to do it this year! If you believe it, you can achieve it!

Sent from my iPhone