A Letter From Santa To Jeff Bezos

To: jeff@amazon.com

From: admin@santasworkshop.biz

Subject: NEED TO CANCEL PRIME

Hello, Jeffrey.

It is with deep sorrow that I write this, but I need to cancel my Amazon Prime subscription. I'll just cut to the chase - 2018 was the worst year on record for us here at the old Workshop, and the funding is drying up. Your government's shutdown isn't helping, by the way. I am barely skating by on minuscule kickbacks from Spotify on the Christmas song playthroughs, and Switzerland refuses to donate in any denomination aside from chocolate.

A businessman at heart, I am impressed by your success in the past decade, but after that sinister $20 membership rate hike you pulled back in May, I cannot help but think you have bitten off more than you can chew. Just remember Toys "R" Us was once too big to fail too, Jeff. Don't get me wrong - it was cathartic to see that asshole giraffe’s stranglehold on the toy industry finally crumble last year (I suppose I have e-commerce to thank for that.) The only thing longer than his stupid neck was the list of electronics manufacturers he had blackball me. At the end of the day, the elves are old fashioned hard workers, but tech is popular, and they can't solder onto a circuit board to save their lives. 

Yes, we are in dire straights here at the South Pole, and that is not a typo, Jeffrey. We were forced out of our longtime headquarters shortly after that damned RC drone boom. It didn't take long for those obnoxious things to swarm our compound in flocks, and with our property value literally melting away, we jumped ship. And trust me Bezos, a penguin is as useless as a giraffe in my book. One is staring at me through my window now, and he hasn't blinked in 10 minutes.

I daresay I have weathered it all until this point - the shopping mall impostors, the NORAD Santa Tracker hoax, those Tim Allen movies... But Amazon has made it especially difficult for me. Believers are at an all time low, and I don't blame them. It's Christmas all year round with you people - you even have the nerve to deliver without gift wrap! A never-ending flurry of beige overindulgence! Just remember, I was the ORIGINAL next-day delivery. The omnipotent Santaclaus Prime. But never mind about the believing. My therapist and I have worked on it, and all I need to carry on is to believe in myself.

The issue here is the bottom line. We're in the red. Like, Starbuckscup red. We have already moved the majority of warehouse operations to South America, but the elves can't survive down there without our air-conditioning costs going through the roof. We're cutting costs everywhere, Jeff. I am sure you can imagine how embarrassing it would be to have to downgrade to Amazon.biz. GoDaddy may take down our website by the time you even read this, but the thought of putting a Kickstarter up to make ends meet is making all these cookies churn in my stomach.

Sorry for the rant. I am sure you have bigger fish to fry, as they say. I myself have dozens of cease and desist letters to send out to Netflix. As a matter of principle, it is just better that we part ways. I suppose I will get used to UPS Ground. In spite of all this, I cannot ignore your near perfect record on the Nice List. Just know that in the face of the rampant economic disparity in the past century, we're looking to change the qualifications, so you better watch out.

Sincerely,

Santa

The Hyde Park Bandstand

The Hyde Park Bandstand sits amidst one of London’s largest and most luxurious green spaces. Its vast grounds give visitors the impression that it couldn’t possibly be amongst one of the busiest metropolises in the world. The structure itself is no more than an eight-sided, elevated platform, above which sits a decorative metal roof held up by black iron columns. Emanating from the base of its steps, large pavestones encircle the platform, and a few meters out from that is a stout garden fence; one that could feasibly keep out small children or any number of flightless birds. On this particular Sunday afternoon, the stage was taken by a fighter and his training partner, perhaps attracted to the octagonal shape made popular by contemporary Mixed Martial Arts arenas. The trainer pranced gracefully around the perimeter of the gazebo wearing padded mitts as the trainee followed, fists up, entrained on his two outstretched targets. Engrossed in the moment, the two moved swiftly back and forth, then side to side, in their own little eight-sided world with the gate locked behind. Passersby didn’t take much notice, but attention was of no concern for the men, motivated by nothing more than a sunny Spring day, a mutual rush of testosterone, and the love of the sport.

So focused were they, as they traded gloves from fighter to training partner and back again, they hadn’t noticed the few girls that mysteriously appeared along the short fence between the Bandstand and the gravel pathways that sprawled out to the rest of the park. But even the prospect of being observed couldn’t shake much more than a sideways glance out of the determined sportsmen. Had they stopped to investigate the developing situation, they would have seen the churning mass in the distance rapidly approaching from the main path. The fighters, however, kept at it while the only sounds that could be heard aside from a distant car horn were the shuffling of their shoes and the satisfying *pock* of a gloved fist making contact with another.

Then suddenly, a piercing shriek punched a hole in the otherwise tranquil soundscape. Some nearby turned their heads, but the two men kept theirs down and their hands up. The initial disturbance was then followed by another which was followed by another and so on until they began to overlap melding into a menacing drone screeching toward them. Pedestrians casually strolling through the park were now hurling themselves off of the main pathway as a flood of seemingly rabid teens and tweens charged violently toward the Bandstand. Within seconds, the mob descended upon the tiny perimeter fence like a flock of buzzards awaiting their next meal. It wasn’t until they were completely surrounded by concentric rows of them that the fighters broke concentration and were taken aback by the mass of anxious faces gazing at them- then past them- then in every other direction. The fighters’ first instincts were to back away, but with nowhere to back away to, they gestured incredulously with their gloves to invoke some sort of explanation. Instead, a mutual taciturnity continued on while the fighters mumbled to each other, and each of the girls glanced down at her smartphone. After several more seconds and the craning of many necks, another scream pierced the air followed by a seismic shift in the crowd as it morphed again into a torrent that funneled back down the main pathway and out of sight. The final cries echoed like a pack of banshees in the night and subsided as some stragglers in the group, winded from the mad rush, stumbled to the next prospective location. Once again the park was quiet as a couple unlucky members of the pack were left behind. One limped off to the side from a potential ankle sprain. Another wept as she held out a limp wrist while bystanders attempted to diagnose the sustained injury.

The fighters looked onward with glazed eyes where the horde became one with the horizon. Only after the dust had literally settled did they slowly muster the focus to continue on with their training. Having been separated several yards from the crowd, they wouldn’t have been able to distinguish a word from the cloud of fanatical discourse amongst it, nor would they have picked out the names of the two YouTube celebrities with which it was collectively infatuated. They would never have seen the little screens of the phones flashing updates which inaccurately disclosed the secret location of their next surprise appearance. For the few eyewitnesses that knew of these details, it was a silly mixup of time and place, but for our beloved training partners, their bewilderment will forever live on.

A Handwritten Letter to Whole Foods

Dearest Whole Foods,

I first want to genuinely thank you for being an abundant resource of healthy and quality foods for me and my partner. We live in quite a wonderful neighborhood close by but aren’t within a convenient proximity to any WF locations otherwise, and we’re truly lucky to have you around! We usually make the trek out to some of the larger stores on our bigger weekend stock-ups, but when we find ourselves mid-week needing those couple of things we’ve run low on, you’re our go-to! (So much so that you’ve earned the nickname ‘Close Foods’ in our home.)

Because of the strict Gluten Free dietary restrictions we have, we’ve found it easier to cook all of our meals from scratch, and the fresh produce and ingredients you’ve graced your shelves with have made this immensely easier for us to accomplish. 
But hey - we’re also human. 
Admittedly, on some of those looooooong weekdays, we’d rather throw a pre-cooked meal in the microwave and watch Netflix until we feel guilty about it. The certified GF options are usually hard to come by with those quick-n-easy meals, but you’ve done a great job accommodating for this, especially with the inclusion of the Against the Grain Gourmet frozen pizzas.

But herein lies my request:

The Classic Flatbread Pizza? A classic, of course.
The Pepperoni Pizza?? A great gluten-free adaptation of a fan favorite.
But the Pesto Pizza??? I can only equate this with the simultaneous rush and comfort of skydiving into an bottomless pit of marshmallows. Or solving a Scooby Doo type mystery, but instead of Scooby Doo, it’s dozens of cute puppies.

Seriously- slice up two chicken sausages, throw them on top of that Pesto Pizza, and you’ve got one of the best damn things you’ve ever eaten in less than 20 minutes. However, as of yet, we haven’t seen this particular pizza in your store. Every week, we peer longingly through the frosted doors of the frozen food aisle hoping to catch a glimpse of the characteristic green box of the Against the Grain Gourmet Pesto Pizza to no avail. 

‘Next time,’ we tell ourselves.

But week after week, rummaging through that frigid bottom shelf like raccoons (don’t worry, we reorganize it afterward), we leave without our beloved cheesy wheel of pesto-smothered, crusty goodness. I’m not sure how complex the logistics would be in stocking the Pesto Pizza in addition to the others you currently have, but we would be eternally grateful if it were possible. At the very least, we would stop sending you annoyingly long letters.

Sincerely,

Your neighbor, The Clack

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Shortly Thereafter:

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