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.
Billy
