Damn you, Santa!

Dear Santa,

I've been good. I know I've made the Nice List. I don't ask for or expect much because as Thoreau observes, I am one of those men who leads a life of quiet desperation.

All I wanted was to find Hayley Mills under my Christmas tree this morning, was that too much to ask?

No, I say.

I slept with visions of Hayley dancing in my head, gorgeously decorated in gold Christmas foil printed with silver snowflakes and fastened with a big, green bow. Unwrapping my Hayley this morning would have made up for years of crappy gifts of socks and soap-on-a-rope in one fantastic gesture.

Instead of the lovely Miss Mills I got the usual gifts of money, DVD's (and they were non-Hayley related too, jerk-face) and cologne.

So be warned fatso, you just took the number one spot on on my naughty list. Welcome to Ass-Clownville. Population: 1. The Mayor: That would be you, beard-o.

You suck.