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(Through the decades)
Dear (1930’s) Santa,
For this
Cristmas alls I want is some food for my rumbly tummy. And food for my brother
Jakob and Martin and John and Robert and Ezekiel and Preston and Carter and
Jeremiah and for my sister Ester and Mary and Margaret and La’Tonya. And a jobs
for daddy. And for mommy to stop crying all of the times. She cry and she cry.
She cry cry cry like a cry baby. Maybe cos she just had another baby. Mommy sed
one more baby and she’ll cut daddy’s “gypsy sausage” off. I don’t know what
that is but I hope its sumthing to eat. And maybe bring me pik-up-stix too.
Sincurly,
Jimbo
Dear (1940’s)
Santa,
Hi-ho,
Santa Claus! Ole St.Nick! Four Christmus I would like a G.I. Joe action
figure!! Boom! Die Notzees!! Ka-blam! I would also like a nice pair of galoshes
so I can stand tall and proud like Mister President Roosevelt!!! He can beat
those German Notzee scum!!!! Wham-O!! Ka-boom!!!!
Sincerly,
James
Dear (1950’s )Santa,
Gee whiz,
Santa! For this Christmas I just want the smooth, rich flavor that can only be
found in Lucky Strike®
brand Cigarettes! That filtered, low-tar flavor! All the stars and the marine
Nazi-killers smoked “em! Boy-oh! Mommy says I shuldnint be smoking but daddy
says mommy is a “washed-up wino I only married becus godammn Jimmy managed to
survive 9 months being pickled alive in that booze-swill you call a woom.”
Santa if you could also bring daddy a map please? He left to get some Lucky
Strike® brand
Cigarettes from the store but he musta got lost becos hes been gone for a week
now. Thank you Santa!
Sencerely,
Jimmy
Dear (2010’s) Santa,
wat
up santa 4 xmas iwant angrybirds touch square n sum ice 4 my bbz
-J
Sent
from my iPod
Dear (23XX’s) Santa,
While
overhearing the scientists at my facility I have learned about this archaic
tradition and it seems to be my last hope. The experiment was a failure. I have lived
for four years in excruciating; unceasing agony as my proto-blood slowly
deteriorates my bionic arteries and my few organic structures attack the
robotic implants causing all my joints to swell, burst, and heal in a vicious
cycle that occurs upwards of ten times a day. I am trapped in a cage deep underground.
These bars are all I have ever known. Why graft wings to my blistered back if I
will never be able to spread them? Dear kind Santa Claus, for this “Christmas”
please bring me sweet, merciful death. That is all I ask.
Sincerely,
Project
Jericho//Alpha Series//Experiment Num. 7 “Jim”
