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Letters To Santa Written By Shakespear Characters

Hail, Santa, King of the Elves!

Many thanks for the male-enhancement products you brought me last year. But as my wife has since forsworn me, I will not be needing them again. Hence, I devote this year’s list to her Christmas wishes. She demands the following items:

— A gift certificate for LATTICE eyelash treatment

— A Wonderbra (size: 36D; color: Midnight Animal)

— Arctic-raised Reindeer Pâté

— “Buns of Steel” DVD

— Dolce & Gabbana Bling Sunglasses

— One ticket to Barack Obama’s 2010 New Year’s Day Brunch [or another exclusive political event]

Santa, may I be frank? My Lady says that if she does not receive all of these anon, she will fly into a murderous rage. Just thought you should know.

— Macbeth

P.S. If you find a posset of cocoa labeled “For Santa,” do not drink it.

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Dear Santa, sweet, sweet Santa:

This Christmas, we wish for nothing more than peace, love, and understanding (LOL). We pray that you will fly like a nimble-pinioned dove to bring our parents copies of Chicken Soup for the Vengeful Soul. And perchance a little Valium for Lady Capulet?

Should Time slow her swift-footed pace, and night’s cloak agree to hide you, do you think maybe you could bring us some stuff too?

— Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” video and poster.

— DVD of The Secret Life of the American Teenager (Season 3)

— Quick-Escape Portable Ladder

— Motorola IMfree Personal Instant Messenger

— Plethysmograph Pulse Recognition Processor

xoxoxoxoxo,
Romeo and Juliet

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Dear Santa:

You’re probably thinking about skipping my palace this year since I’m Queen of Egypt, but if you really love me you’ll prove it by showing up. I mean, it’s not like I have everything. Do you know how many messengers I’ve had to kill this year just to get some good news around here? And if I want a basket of asps, do you think I just have one lying around? I’m so sick and tired of being judged by old white guys like you thinking, “Oh, she’s so spoiled and so beautiful and such a big ol’ whore bag. It’s not like she needs anything.” Well I got news for you, Santa. There’s a real person inside this gorgeous body, and she has real feelings. I’m lonely, okay? L-O-N-E-L-Y. And depressed. You know what? Fuck it. If you can’t even bother to come and check up on me, then you can just screw yourself and the sleigh you rode in on. I’m going to kill myself right now. Okay, I just did it. I’m dead. Are you happy? You depressed me so much that I’m dead. Seriously. Nice going, old man.

— Cleopatra

P.S. In case you decide to come to my funeral, maybe you could bring me some Bonne Bell Lipsmackers to take with me to the Underworld.

taken from: http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2009/12/17bicks.html

Dearest DRONEY MITCHELL,

Where can I find you? Have you been produced yet, or are you still in the making? Is this some sort of joke that you like to play, because you know I will be anxious to listen? It’s not funny anymore Droney. I’ve been waiting for you. When you finally decide to come out of your reckless youth, please let me know. I was thinking maybe we could put on a pot of coffee, and talk about our exes.

It’s your call.
I’ll be here.

37

“I am walking down the street to the dry cleaner, with my black pants balled up in my arms.

And this is Ninth Avenue I am walking down, and let me tell you, my friend, there is a lot going on, on Ninth Avenue. There are men in white T-shirts, standing around. Cigarettes in their hands. Cigarettes in their mouths.

I look at people now, smoking. Lately I have been trying to think of illnesses in terms of metaphor. I said illnesses but I mean behaviors.

What does it mean that someone thinks they need a cigarette many times a day? What does it mean to need fire like that? Fire all the time?

Does it mean you are too watery? Does it mean you feel you have no spark?

Does it mean you have a need to see your breath? That it’s not enough to hear it, to feel it? You need to see the image? You need to see the smoke?

My dad smoked Kools. Since he was twelve, he smoked. He quit in his fifties.
That is why he had emphysema. That is why he died, basically.

My dad is dead. And as I type this, by the window, on the rainy day, I am alive, yes. I am living. But sometimes it doesn’t feel like I am doing it fast enough, or hard enough, or all the way. And it is times like that when I can understand wanting a cigarette in my hand, then my mouth, then my hand again. Holding the cigarette. Tending to the cigarette. Giving the cigarette what it needs. Tapping it in the ashtray. Sucking on it.

Then flicking it in the street, like it meant nothing to me.”



.Amy Fusselman, “The Pharmacist’s Mate”