It reads as follows:
Dear Santa,
Although you probably won't notice this until a day or two after Christmas since you're busy filling the sleigh, micro-managing the elves, and doing God-knows-what with the ho-ho-hos in the secretarial pool, I've packed my things and have moved out of the cottage. Shortly after the holidays, you'll be hearing from my attorney about division of property and what-not, but in the meantime I'll be staying with my mother in Tampa. I've had more than enough crappy North Pole weather as it is.
This is not a decision I've arrived at lightly. For years, I've put up with you sitting on your fat ass for eleven months eating Hostess cupcakes and watching the Food Network followed by a one-month period of work-related stress and hostility. I find it ironic, and morbidly amusing, that kids all over the world view you as the very picture of kindness and generosity when we both know that it's all an act. Sure, you're all smiles and merriment for them, but take off the red coat and phony beard and you're nothing but a cynical, grouchy old bastard. Why is it, for example, that you'll eat any stale cookie the kids' grubby hands leave for you on Christmas Eve, but if I so much as burn one Snickerdoodle you practically have an aneurysm? You've built an entire career around knowing who's been naughty and who's been nice but take a look at yourself. You're about ten percent "jolly old elf" and ninety percent "bitter old drunk." It's a good thing children aren't privy to Santa's Dark Side. "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night" plays a lot better than "Get me another beer, bitch, or you're getting the reindeer whip again." I'd love to tell the world what a cranky SOB you are, but I wouldn't want to destroy their delusions. Between you and me, you're nothing but a holly, jolly asshole.
I'll tell you, mister, I'm sick of your condescension, treating me like I'm the hired help. Just because the elves' union won't allow them to clean up reindeer shit doesn't mean I should do it instead. I don't have the time or the inclination to be a stable maid. You keep me busy enough baking gingerbread, decorating the cottage, and altering your suit to accommodate your ever-expanding gut. I'm done shoveling Donner muffins.
The next couple things might sound petty, but they've been bothering me for a long time. Why is it that you can remember the names of every single boy and girl in the world and know if they've been bad or good, yet you can't remember to put the toilet seat down after you take a whiz? And really, you give millions of kids wonderful presents each year, fulfilling their every Christmas wish, but remember what you gave ME last year? A fucking vacuum cleaner.
I didn't want to stoop to this, but as long as I'm laying it out there, I may as well get it off my chest. Our sex life is pathetic. I don't know where you got the idea that you're the man of every woman's dreams, but that "Hey, baby, how'd you like to see my North Pole" line wasn't charming in 1843 and it's not charming now. I also don't appreciate your repeated hounding me to try something called "Reverse Sleigh Ride." I have no idea what that means, but it sounds far too kinky for my taste. Truth be told, I haven't enjoyed the physical part of our relationship for decades, not just because of your chauvinistic attitude, but also because that "belly that shakes like a bowl full of jelly" isn't so festive when it's bouncing on top of me. That moaning sound you hear isn't ecstasy, it's pain. And not the good kind. Oh, one more thing, and I hope this doesn't insult your manhood. You're not the only one who "comes just once a year." 'Nuff said.
I've already filed for divorce, so you should be receiving notice in the near future. Please do not attempt to contact me directly, as I have no interest in discussing this further. I do, however, wish you a safe journey this Christmas Eve, and please send my best regards to Rudolph. I always kinda liked that little guy.
Sincerely,
Bernice Huffstetter-Claus
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