I am writing this under extreme duress, because my son and partner are pouting pouty pouters and frankly, life is too short. Also I was promised a blow job. Please don't show the elves that part.
For Christmas I would like a Large Hadron Collider in my own backyard. Failing that – and frankly, you're supposed to be able to bring anything, so I'm not even sure why I'm required to supply back-up choices, but my son informs me that I'm not doing it right if I don't – I'd like several new pairs of socks, a lifetime's supply of Bochner chocolates, and a blow job. Again – keep the elves away from that information. You do keep these letters confidential, right? I mean, I presume so, because what sort of organization would share sensitive information with every member of the workforce regardless of the employee's years of service, skill at toy-making, and maturity? Not that elves are necessarily immature, of course, but still, if there are elves running around willy-nilly, finding out about John Sheppard's ability to do filthy things to me on a moment's notice, you might want to look into that. It can't be good for their blood pressure.
I would ask for world peace, but I'm not sure I'm personally capable of upholding whatever end of the bargain that would entail, so I will settle for my brother-in-law shutting up about Hemingway and in return I promise to uh . . . well, nothing comes to mind, because I'm not nearly as irritating as he is.
In practical terms we could use someone to clean out the gutters come fall, since Sheppard hates that job, and I'd be especially glad if you could get your deer-minions to speak to our deer-demons and persuade them to stay the hell out of the vegetable patch, because being asked to go take a leak around the corn plants is never going to stop being weird, no matter how effective it is at keeping four-legged flora-crunching Rudolph-wannabes away. I have no idea if the deer have pull with raccoons, but if the latter end up living under the porch again this year, I cannot be held responsible for my actions, so do what you can.
I'd like my kids to grow up brilliant and happy, and Sheppard to smile as often as possible, because I still feel we're working off a chronic deficit of proper care and feeding in his early life, and really, I am far more fond of him than is necessarily comfortable when he has such prehensile monkey toes, but I seem to be screwed on that front if I'm honest. So if you could keep them all safe and healthy and warm this year I'd even forgo the chocolates, but the sock situation is really pretty dire, so consult with whomever you have to and throw those in, package deal, I'm sure you've heard of the concept.
M. Rodney McKay, Ph.D. (not to be confused with others who may not deserve quite as much for Christmas as I do)
Dear Santa –
Table saw (on sale at Sears)
Gloves (with that cool ice-scraper thing already attached)
DVDs. Sarah Connor Chronicles. (Mrs. Claus have any weapons training? Just – you know, in case. Of robots.)
Not sure the policy on asking Santa for, you know, personal items, but you're Santa, so you know what I'm thinking, right? (Lube too.)
Flannel shirts (3)
Insulated flannel shirts (some. I mean – I won't limit you here. Do what you think is right.)
Super Deluxe Four-Person Water Gun Set. Not gonna lie, the kid's'll love it. The kids. Mmmhmm.
Menards gift certificate – nails and stuff. Screws. (Heh.)
AAA membership on the truck
Maybe on Rodney's car too. He'll forget to ask.
Popcorn. Unpopped. Not that stuff in a can.
Do they sell cases of Doritos? That'd be cool.
Anything with a laser in it. Or on it.
Reese's Peanut Butter cups.
Here's the big one – think you could have the kids sleep in one morning? Christmas Day's probably a bust, I know, but if we could go 'til 7, 8 some Saturday or Sunday, I'd . . . well, c'mon, you know the guy. Broad shoulders, nice hips, real warm. I like . . . lingering. Lingering'd be good.
And then maybe a day where the kids climb all over him like he's a jungle gym, cause that's always funny.
Dear Santa –
For Crissmas I'd like a football an a baseball an a hockie stik an a bigger bike an a helmet coss Dad says helmets always always an a compruter an a wee an a thing with the – um – I'm just gone act it out you can see it yeh so one of them an a sled an a hose for my gardin an some seeds an a trip see aunty jeannie an a cushion where you sit on it an it makes big farts I saw one in the shop with baffa an he har har hard an so maybe two of them an a plane an a mikascrope an some paints in all the colors an some brushs and some big paper for paints and some skates an Dad says bring me spellins.
I will leave cookies, big ones, Dad an me make them, you like sprinkels?
love an hugs an oh I leave carrots for deer and I tell Baffa not to pee outside Crissmas eve, no wurries, love Finn McKay Iowa USA the wurld
Dear Santa –
P.S. I concur that my father should have a Large Hadron Collider in his back yard, thank you very much, yours sincerely, Ms. Meredith Sheppard.
P.P.S. My Baffa really loves motorcycles. In case that's of interest. Merrie.
P.P.P.S. CUSHION THAT FARTS by Mer age um I forget Iowa USA the wurld