I'm writing this because you just don't get it. Your kids are stuffing my mailbox with all kinds of requests you can't deliver. Nice try. Even being supernatural won't cut it this year.
You think you have supply chain issues? It's not just the parts that are stuck in shipping containers. Your wildfires have created a timber shortage for the wooden toys. And no one wants anything but recycled plastic, which you're not making fast enough.
Not that it would matter. With all of you closing your borders to limit the spread of delta and omicron, we can't get anything up to the North Pole anyway.
And talent? My belly shakes like a bowl full of jelly when I hear you complaining. There are only so many elves, and now half of them want to work from home which, as you know, tends to be places like knotholes in old oak trees and gingerbread houses.
Ever try to make a decent rocking horse in a space the size of an orange? Or get a toboggan out a door that doesn't have hinges?
Things are no better in my workshop. Since half the elves are working remotely, they need to talk to the half at headquarters so they can coordinate their efforts. Ever see a bunch of elves on a Zoom call? You can only see the tops of their heads, and everyone is chattering at once. There is no word in the elf language for "mute," so it's a real mess.
Even the reindeer are off their game. Since we can't make all the requested toys this year, they know the sleigh is going to be lighter. So they're not doing their usual sprints to get in shape. Let's put it this way: They don't call him "Blitzen" for nothing, and Rudolph's nose is bright red from imbibing too much eggnog. The rest are binge-watching Netflix and HBO and arguing over which spoiled brat should get the company in "Succession."
All of this makes Mrs. Claus crabby. She started her own online business for her jams and jellies, but the nearest 5G tower is 1,000 miles away, so her site crashes a lot.
And then there's the North Pole. It's melting. I mean — c'mon, people! If you really valued Santa, you might want to just leave those lumps of coal in the earth where they belong and put rocks in the stockings of your naughty kids instead.
Forget "Ho, ho, ho!" This year, the only thing I'm saying is "Oh! Oh! Oh!"
So that's it. I've had enough.
I shaved my beard, cut my hair into an edgy style. I'm moving to Los Angeles. Mrs. Claus has already lined up a marketing agency for her food business, and sent some to Tom Hanks to spread on his toast.
I have a new personal chef and an agent who's in discussions with Marvel about a new superhero who's body-positive, looks great in red velvet and laughs a lot. I'm practicing my dance moves for Tik Tok. Forget "the floss." It will be old news when "the Claus" goes viral.
As for Rudolph and the boys, I'm turning them loose. You know: free range. Natural. And the elves? Some of them have gone to work for Lego. A few have contacted Keebler to see about openings. The rest are waiting out the pandemic, although I told them not to hold their breath.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Robin Silverman lives in Eden Prairie.