Dear Santa

It’s that time of the year again when stupid kids who believe in Santa put milk and cookies out in the hope that the fat guy is going to bring them presents. I am personally disillusioned with the guy in the red suit and have decided to mail him my last letter. Ever

Dear Santa

I spoke to that sour old bitch at the post office today, Gertrude. I walked in with a baseball bat and started smashing her bullet proof window that keeps me from killing her for not delivering my mail. You see I have had troubles over the past few years with my mail getting to you. Everyone else seems to get my post except you. When I asked last year for hot birds covered in oil, I meant women, not fucking chickens. I am up to my eyeballs in chicken and quite frankly it’s time for some real birds now. When I said I want to win the lottery I did not mean the “bankrupt” lottery. I was more poor this year than ever. I’m so broke in fact that I have taken to living on my mountain bike…naked. When I said I wanted to be rich and famous I think it was mistaken by someone to be “Broke, unknown, hated, despised, unwanted, unpopular, no future ahead” It is for these reasons that I believe you have not received my letters. I think somewhere along the line the devil is poaching your mailbox. Everything I ask for I get the exact opposite. Did you ever get a letter from me asking if I want to be bankrupt, useless and without a girlfriend? No you didn’t. So why the fuck am I bankrupt, useless and without a girlfriend? If you are such a bastard then I know why that kid kicked you in the nuts at Cavendish Square last Christmas. What do you want me to do in order for you to grant me my wishes? Maybe I should leave you a glass of Jack with a roofie in it and an Engen pie instead of milk and cookies. That’s what I will do. If you have my blog address please visit it from time to time because you will get to know me better and realise the life I am living is not the one I asked for. I want to be famous. Not Colin Moss famous. I want to be Chuck fuckin’ Norris famous. I want to rated higher than the friggin’ Dalai Lama. Actually I want to be so fuck off famous that people say “Who is Chuck Norris and the Dalai Lama? In fact, who is God? All I know is Sean Lloyd” I want to be worth a billion dollars. I want to be like you and sit in the North Pole smoking weed and doing cocaine. I want cocaine to be my sugar, my bread, my vegetables. I want to do cocaine all day. But how do you expect me to do this if the things I ask of you do not come true? You know Santa I feel like a kid every year at Christmas time. I feel like a kid who has been promised a nice red shiny bike as a present. I feel like the kid who has been promised this, but when my present eventually arrives it’s not a bike. Instead it’s a bag of fucking coal. I feel like that kid. That kid who then realises his best friend got the exact bike he wanted and he has to watch the mother fucker ride the bike every day. I feel like a lost puppy. I feel like a deer in the headlights. I feel like the kid in the above photo, crying my balls off. Look how you made that little tyke cry? You're a bastard. I feel all fucked up today and that’s why I write this letter. I’m flat broke, I have no friends and the only string of hope I have left is this fucking letter that will probably not get to you. But by George if I hear that it gets to you, and you don’t grant me my wishes, I am going to walk to your house in my boxer shorts and end you. Because I can’t stand this bullshit anymore. Go in peace you fat lump.

Bestest regards

Seano Maximo