I need a few things. A new wall. Mine was broken into last week. I need a grandfather clock repairman. Oh, and I could use a language program; my vocabulary isn't very large. I need someone to bring me the paper; I miss the book reviews. I could also use a decorator; it's awfully dark here and most of the decor is painted black. Finally, and I hope this isn't too much to ask, I'd like a new owner. Mine went out drinking last night and hasn't returned.
Sincerely,
The Raven
Baltimore, MD
33
Dear Santa
Dear Santa, this year I definitely think I have been what I can only describe as good. You see others might not agree with that but I always go to great lengths to point out that I have no memory of my funny turns and no conscious awareness when I’m in that particular mode. My psychiatrist backs me up on it, so ask him and he will tell you. He’ll even throw in a written report but it costs me hundreds of pounds every time so I’d be grateful if you just took my word for it.
And it’s not like I’ve killed anyone. Maimed, sure. Scarred, of course. But I see it as a gift. It’s like a conversation starter, an interesting story when the conversation lulls, after all not everyone has been attacked by a werewolf (though I’d prefer the term ‘roughly caressed’, it helps to describe it that way when the courts get involved. It’s all in the wording you see, semantics, Santa.) and scars always look cool. Not only that but some people get turned on by them, so it can increase their pulling power on the right alternative dating websites. Definitely a gift.
Anyway, let’s get down to business. For Christmas can you bring me:
1.Velcro boxer shorts. Because when I have a funny turn obviously my clothes bust at the seams and when I’m rampaging around I’d prefer it if my bits weren’t dangling on show. I’m not shy per se but in Britain it can be freezing. I figure the Velcro will stick to the sprouting fur and keep my modesty covered when my pants shred. Also I don’t want people thinking I’m some kind of pervert, I don’t deliberately get naked, my seams bust like I said. There has never been that kind of element to my funny turns and I’ve definitely not enjoyed any of them, honestly. I mean I don’t even remember them, especially the ones with the hot babes that I relive all the time in my mind. Ask my psychiatrist, he’ll back me up on it. Like I said I’d prefer it if you just trusted my word though because he’s a money grabbing leech. In fact I’m thinking of having a funny turn after I follow him out of his office one day soon.
2.Dental floss. Sometimes when I’m ‘roughly caressing’ I get bits stuck. Enough said I think on that one.
3.Toothpick (preferably gold, but I’ll accept ornate ceramic or something similar – although NO SILVER). See above.
4.George Foreman (or generic) Grill. I’ve been told I seem to savour fresh blood when I’m having a funny turn though I don’t remember. Especially when I ‘roughly caressed’ that smoking hot blonde that time. Wow, what a night! Anyway, that’s all good but afterwards when I want to get my strength back and come round from the episode I get ravenous hungry. At that point I prefer a hot meal - you know, whatever chunks I’ve brought back with me, with vegetables - and the blood is a pain in the backside to get out of my tea towels and cooking apron.
5.Some expensive conditioner of your choice. I’ll leave the details up to you, but make sure it’s expensive. The more expensive the better, right? Try it on your beard first and if it works it should do for me, because I saw your beard on that Coke ad and seriously, you need to get it in shape. I have an awful ‘fluffy fur’ problem at the moment after I’ve shampooed when I’m preparing to rampage. Also, can you make sure it’s got something in it to target dandruff, I’m a little flaky. Although sometimes I’m not sure if they’re my bits of skin or they’re from the ‘roughly caressed’. Either way, needs must.
6.Teen Wolf box set. Obviously.
7.Nail file. NOT SILVER. Just a file, no clippers thanks. It’s easier to scrape away evidence if they’re grown longer. Nothing worse than poking around in that bit where the root of the nail hits the finger. I’m a little squeamish at that. Who’d have thought, eh?
That’s everything for now. If I think of anything else I’ll fed-ex the demand via express delivery. Finally, be careful when you get down the chimney. I’m not saying I will be, but it’s a possibility that I might be in the midst of a funny turn. I can’t say for sure though so you might want to throw a reindeer in the living room first, you know, as a distraction while you deposit the loot. I don’t want to be worrying you, but be on your toes is all I’m saying. Thanks in advance, yours faithfully,
Mr. L.Ying Canthropite.
34
Dearest Santa,
Perhaps you remember me. My name is Boggy P. Boggart the Third, Esquire, MD, PhD, PVC, and Pee-Wee. I have written your illustrious, red-jowled highness each and every year since the First Coming—there’s supposed to be a second one, isn’t there, but it seems they keep putting it off by a couple years each time it rolls round?—anyway. Not that you would know anything about that.
I’m writing to submit to you my Xmas list and beg a few favors from you. Perhaps a few big favors, really. Am I being rude? I don’t know. I’m a boggart in a blasted swamp; I don’t get to talk to many people!
Moving on. Start the list.
I would appreciate it if you could send me some eye-goggles. Not pink ones, God no. Something that would suit my masculinity and my brown, mud-lathered fur. I’m thinking the ones I saw in the shopping mall in screaming green. Yes. That’ll go with the decor of my swamp nicely.
Second, I would appreciate it if you could send me a bathrobe. Again, not pink. Screaming green, if it’s not too much trouble, to go with the goggles. It would look rather ridiculous to the fish and the owls if I had goggles but no robe, wouldn’t it? A boggart must be in style. Always in style. After all, I didn’t inherit the titles Esquire, MD, PhD, PVC, and Pee-Wee from my father for nothing, did I?
Third, I’d like it if you could do something about the mud between my toes. I know, yes, that boggarts are meant to be in the mud, muddy; we’re all about mud, mud in our eyes, our noses, our ears, up our everythings, but—it just gets between my wee toes and...itches. Just itches. It’s terrible. I think I have boggart’s foot or something. So one of those little white tubes with the salve of the divine wouldn’t be too much to ask for. This one doesn’t have to be screaming green. I’m obviously not going to show it to anybody.
And lastly, I would very much like a hippopotamus of my very own. All my other boggart-friends have talked about these lovely animals and some of them even got to go on a trip and ride on some of them and had a splendid time. (Well, one of my friends came back with his teeth missing but I think it’s only ‘cause he’s an idiot and probably picked off a row with one of the potties.) Anyway, I think I’d get on quite well with one of them and would like one to put in my swamp. I know they’re very big and smelly but I’ve been a good, good, good little boggart this year and they can’t possibly that much trouble for someone who looks like a hippopotamus himself. Er—yes. Thank you!
Sincerely,
Boggy P. Boggart the Third, Esquire, MD, PhD, PVC, and Pee-Wee
35
Dear Santa,
I think that I've been a very good killer robot this year. You know those pesky humans who are always running around, eating things and breeding? Yeah, I hate them too. But, I bet you'll be happy to know that I exterminated quite a few of them this year. We're a bit closer to enjoying a human-free world now, thanks to me!
Anyway, seeing as how I've done my part for the machinocracy this year, I figure that I might be entitled to a requisition of presents from the gift factory you operate. Here's my list:
-A voucher for a free oil change
-A voucher for a free sharpening of my kill-blades (or new kill-blades-- anything in the eXtremeviserator 7000 series would be awesome!)
-A pair of fuzzy dice
-A voucher for a free tread-cleaning
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-A voucher for a free data-disc backup
I'll be waiting under the tree, in case of humans. Don't mind me. Just bring down whatever presents you think I deserve and I'll make sure you receive your regularly scheduled ration of data packets.