Thursday, November 20, 2014

Hey Mrs. Clause, tell your hubby that Billy wants an induced nuclear fission hand blaster this Christmas

Dear Mrs. Clause,

It's me, Billy Nelson from 2333 Winchester St. Paducah, TN. I need you to speak to Santa for me. I feel he has wronged me and I was hoping you could talk some sense into your hubby. Here's the deal. I spoke with the man briefly beside a Verizon kiosk at the McCracken Valley Mall a week back. I asked for one gift and one gift only—a self-designed induced nuclear fission hand blaster (hereafter referred to as my soon-to-be-trademarked name, The Rapture Whisperer). Santa said the elves couldn't produce such a thing. Of course I wouldn't expect that there'd be an induced nuclear fusion hand blaster, or, Rapture Whisperer, just lying around the workshop so I slipped the instructions to build one under this belt. He just looked at them and laughed. I don't know why. Splitting an atom isn't exactly cutting edge science anymore. Einstein...hello. Besides, if the elves are able to build billions of toys for billions of children in one year, surely they'd be capable of building me a single Rapture Whisperer. Anyway, Santa just laughed again and tossed the instructions into a nearby trash can and began walking toward Subway. What a fool! Does he want them to unwittingly fall into the hands of a power hungry food court janitor? I rescued them and confronted him once again, explaining that I'd been an exceeding good boy all year and all I wanted was one single gift of what is essentially a space age hand-bazooka capable of ending all life on planet Earth. I ensured him the plans would be easy to follow. Heck, I'd build The Rapture Whisperer myself if I had enriched uranium. I figured those tinkering elves might have that stuff somewhere in what surely must be a vast warehouse of building materials. Or at least they'd know what North African black markets to surf. But then your snooping hubby began questioning my intentions. Frankly, I was a bit offended. I assure you I don’t give off any eccentric despot vibes in person. I ensured him I meant no harm. Then he asked, "What if it your little gadget goes off by accident?" I showed him on the instructions where there's clearly a foolproof safety mechanism near the trigger on my so-called little gadget. Besides, I've fired my Dad's 22. to end the misery of a desperately wounded raccoon partially squashed by a forklift operated by my drunk heavy-footed uncle. I know how firearms operate and I'm quite comfortable with one in my warm alive hands. And then he asked me "Why would you want something capable of incinerating a mid-sized American city?" Why wouldn't anyone, duh? Not that I'd ever use the Rapture Whisperer to destroy a population, let alone hurt a fly. But what your husband doesn't seem to grasp, Mrs. Clause, is that my invention, The Rapture Whisperer, is designed to be a deterrent first and foremost. I never WANT to use it. But I mean, what sixth grader is going to steal lunch money from a kid with an induced nuclear fission hand blaster sticking out of his corduroys? I told Santa that and he just patted me on the head and turned around and ordered a meatball marinara foot long. So, please talk to the big guy for me. Tell him I deserve this one little thing. Promise him that I will never, ever use my "little gadget" unless provoked and it's absolutely necessary. But, mark my words, if Ted Growler ever tries to tie me to the monkey bars and pound on my kneecaps with a Fun Noddle again…

Thank you, Mrs. Clause, for your anticipated cooperation in this matter.


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