bruiserboy

Dear Santa,

I have been a good boy-critter.

It really wasn't my fault what happened at Rolanda's Christmas party. It was Luke who spiked the punch with too much Lewiston-Bottled Rum. I can't help it if I drank 21 glasses. It was so good---smelled and tasted just like bile.

I thought it was funny when I put Ethan's bannana hammock on my head and danced the "the Atomic Shovel" on the magazine rack while singing `"I Wanna Sex U Up"'. I didn't mean to break Rolanda's turboduo and don't know why Rolanda would sue me for mopery.

I don't remember calling Conan O Brien's wife a scandalous lady-goat---even though she looked like one with black eye shadow and orange lipstick!

And when I threw up on Erin's husband's tragus, it was only because I ate too much of that popcorn shrimp.

After all that fun, I admit I was a little tired. So I fell asleep on my way home and drove my geo tracker through my neighbor's boudoir. I don't think that was any reason for my neighbor to call me a pimplely taintworm and have me arrested for fratericide!

So, Santa...here I sit in my jail cell on Christmas Eve, all abnormal and gangly. And I'm really not to blame for any of this depraved stuff. Please bring me what I want the most---bail money!

Sincerely and spent yours,
Matt (Really a nice boy-critter!)

P.S. It's only 24 bucks!


Make Your Christmas Letter Here