Dear Santa,

Sorry, I haven’t written in ages. So much has happened since my last correspondence – I didn’t get that part in the Christmas play but my bottom tooth finally came in! Thanks for the Snoopy Snow Cone Machine, by the way. That was awesome.

Santa, 2009 has been rough. We’ve had corporate bailouts and escalating wars. Religious weirdos praying for the president’s death and private health care companies being favored over the public. Empty-headed boobs like Levi Johnston and What’s-his-face Gosselin made headlines while spoiled superstars continued to debauch and philander, self-destruct and die.

Then there’s life down here with us commoners where we’ve lost our jobs and homes in this tanking ship of an economy. We have identity crises and depression galore. Everyone seems lost.

And here I am getting jazzed with the rest of ‘em, watching Tiger Woods’ fall from grace. Maybe feeding on the man’s carcass nourishes the sense of insecurity and anger we all feel. Just yesterday, I was reading about the women who keep coming out of the woodwork to sleaze up the golfer’s rep. “Ha ha,” I cackled, discovering Mr. Squeaky Clean’s predilection for porn stars and casino hostesses, and the raunchy things he asked them to do. Then I saw an article about the 911 call made from the house the night his wife whacked him with a golf club. In the call, an old woman had collapsed and a child was crying in the background. A desperate husband, a panic-stricken wife, a mother sent to the hospital and a child watching as his world crumbles. Not so funny anymore.