Sunday, December 25, 2005

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.


  1. Did you want the young Haley as shown in her photo, or the elderly Haley as she is now?

    Just curious.


  2. Young, is eternal, don't you know. It doesn't matter.

    She's still cute as a button.


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