North Pole, USA
I suppose it’s no secret that My feelings for You are somewhat ambivalent. On the one hand, You’ve been cutting in on My boys’ turf for years. On the other, You’re a better gateway drug than Robitussin®. The one leads to people forgetting that I shtupped My ex-wife at least once in the Spring of ’00 and the other leads to more brand-loyalists for Me.
I’ve given this a lot of thought while riding the elevator up to the rooftop pool and I’ve decided that My overall number of brand-loyalists, (and thus My Deity Clubbe perks), are paramount. Like any good father, I love My boys, but when weighed against My choice of tee-off times and the balcony table in the Supernova Members’ Dining Room, the Jesii can get stuffed.
Therefore, I’m writing to warn You about a grave, grave danger. Ever since deity school, I’ve been a little leery of teachers. I may not look it now, but I was quite a jock in school. I led the smiting team to victory 30,000 years running. It must have caused some jealousy among some of the brainiac teachers, because they damned near failed Me in mathematics, extrasolar geology and biology. So I wasn’t surprised when I started hearing about aclaustic teachers poisoning the minds of future brand-loyalists. Teachers all over are urging children not to believe in You.
The thought of these impressionable minds being taught skepticism at such an early age is like an icicle right in the cervical vertebra, (That’s the upper ones, right?). If they learn critical thinking so young, imagine what kind of adults they’ll turn out to be.
Now, I don’t have anything against My Chosen People, they are Chosen, after all, but the hard fact is that atheists don’t tithe. Not since the Spanish Inquisition went belly-up, at least. Besides, if everyone scoffed at You and Me then everyone would be Chosen, and if everyone were Chosen… no one would be Chosen. I wouldn’t be able to play through when Odin is on one of His 26-putt fiascos. More to the point, though, if everyone were Chosen, no one would tithe.
I don’t know what You do when You’re not in the Workshop, (except that time I ran into You in Amsterdam), but I can tell You that a world without Fillet Mignon with Sauce Bernaise, 40 year-old whiskey and daily massages is a world I wouldn’t want to live in. So You need to do something, and do it quick.
My suggestions are, first, bend Your “naughty/nice” rule this year. A Red Ryder BB Gun with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time for every little boy, regardless of moral turpitude, would go a long way toward cementing Your position. Throw in a Chatty Kathy for the sisters and You’re golden. While You’re at it, You might bribe their folks, too. An S&M Bondage Playset for Dad and maybe a new vacuum cleaner for Mom could tip the scales.
Second, I’d gather up a few of Your surliest elves and pay these teachers a little midnight visit. A head-butt to the kneecaps at 3:00 AM can really turn around some attitudes. Not to metion a sidewalk full of reindeer poop.
Wish You Were Here,