San­ta hits back at a hap­less hack

George Herald - - Arts & Entertainment - De­ar San­ta, De­ar C­lif­fi­kins, De­ar San­ta, C­liff B­ü­chler

My fe­s­ti­val fan­ta­sy see­ks your in­dul­gen­ce.

Last ye­ar I ple­a­ded with you to round up all cor­rupt po­li­ti­ci­ans and re­li­gi­ous fa­na­ti­cs, get them to work in your fac­to­ry ma­king toys.

The mo­ve was to re­ha­bi­li­ta­te them to be­co­me ho­nest, hum­ble and ho­nou­ra­ble ci­ti­zens. Then to bring them back to in­flu­en­ce ot­hers. But no, you ig­no­red my re­quest, and we're still stuck with the­se mis­cre­ants. Alt­hough t­hey're kno­wn to the law en­for­cers (sic), par­ty stalwarts (sic) are still acti­ve in ban­krupt SOEs and mu­ni­ci­pa­li­ties. And ji­ha­dis­ts con­ti­nue to in­flu­en­ce the gul­li­ble.

A di­sap­point­ment,

San­ta.

I was al­ways un­der the im­pres­si­on co­lum­nis­ts we­re in­tel­lec­tu­als. OK, e­go­tis­ti­cal and self-in­dul­gent, but with so­me sa­vvy.

Your clu­e­less re­quest, if it re­flects the t­hin­king of your con­tem­po­ra­ries, puts paid to my be­lief. Any t­hin­king per­son will know po­li­ti­ci­ans and re­li­gi­ous fa­na­ti­cs can't be re­ha­bi­li­ta­ted. T­hey are e­ter­nal­ly a bad spe­cies. And you ex­pect me to in­tro­du­ce the­se crooks to my hard-wor­king pix­ies.

The first thing t­hey'll do is form a la­bour u­ni­on and de­mand wa­ges. My pix­ies work for the lo­ve of the job and are qui­te hap­py with their lot. The re­li­gi­ous fa­na­ti­cs will es­ta­blish se­cret cells to brain­wash my wor­kers w­hom I've taug­ht to lo­ve one a­not­her - the true be­lief.

You've ob­vi­ous­ly f­or­got­ten w­hat a po­li­ti­ci­an is: one who, w­hen boug­ht, stays boug­ht. Ho-ho-ho!

And fa­na­ti­cism? Iro­ni­cal­ly a co­lum­nist (he must be a­mong the ra­re cle­ver on­es) de­fi­ned it thus: It co­mes from any form of cho­sen blind­ness ac­com­pa­nying the purs­uit of a sin­gle dog­ma.

And the­se are the pe­op­le you want to foist on me! I would sug­ge­st you spend the fes­ti­ve se­a­son tur­ning loo­se your cre­a­ti­ve jui­ces (not in­clu­ding the fruit of the vi­ne, ho-ho­ho), en­coura­ging the na­ti­on at lar­ge to wa­ke up and use the bal­lot box to s­how its an­ger a­gainst a go­vern­ment fil­led with the pe­op­le you want me to hand­le. That's the on­ly way of doing it.

But I le­a­ve you with one u­nu­su­al­ly s­mart thoug­ht co­ming from Bill C­lin­ton: "Being p­re­si­dent is li­ke run­ning a ce­me­te­ry: you've got a lot of pe­op­le un­der you and no­bo­dy's lis­te­ning". Ho-ho-ho!

OK. OK. I con­si­der my­self slap­ped. But just for your in­for­ma­ti­on: T­he­re's a fa­mi­ly cal­led Gup­ta. . .

A s­leigh dra­wn by fro­thing r­ein­deer is seen doing a U-turn at bre­ak­neck speed. To In­dia?

Hap­py Chris­t­mas. Yo­da is a Ger­man shep­herd cross fe­ma­le look­ing for a good ho­me. She is very li­ve­ly and lo­ves to play.

Flos­sie is a 7-ye­ar-old Pe­kin­ge­se fe­ma­le, an i­de­al Chris­t­mas pre­sent.

Bus­ter, a rid­ge­back ma­le, is just o­ver 2 y­e­ars old.

This ma­le Pe­kin­ge­se is wai­ting for you.

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