Dear Santa,
I have been a good boy.
It really wasn't my fault what happened at hypothetical friend #1's Christmas party. It was hypothetical friend #2 who spiked the punch with too much wine. I can't help it if I drank 7 glasses. It was so good---smelled and tasted just like frankincense.
I thought it was funny when I put hypothetical friend #1's willy warmer on my head and danced the highland fling on the book case while singing `agadoo'. I didn't mean to break hypothetical friend #1's vibrating rubber pussy and don't know why hypothetical friend #1 would sue me for genocide.
I don't remember calling hypothetical friend #3's wife a fucking sheep---even though she looked like one with aeneous eye shadow and erythraean lipstick!
And when I threw up on hypothetical friend #4's husband's left foot, it was only because I ate too much of that haggis.
After all that fun, I admit I was a little tired. So I fell asleep on my way home and drove my F-22 Raptor through my neighbor's kitchen. I don't think that was any reason for my neighbor to call me a nicely black ant and have me arrested for public indecency!
So, Santa...here I sit in my jail cell on Christmas Eve, all slippery and quietly. And I'm really not to blame for any of this priestly stuff. Please bring me what I want the most---bail money!
Sincerely and well yours,
Peter (Really a nice boy!)
P.S. It's only 24 bucks!