Dear Fraud,
Actually no, scratch that, I'm afraid 'fraud' simply doesn't do this abomination justice. Let me rephrase.
Dear Judas,
Which has to be considered an even greater insult as we all know there was never such a thing as Jesus and anyway Judas was the closest thing to a hero in that particular fable of pointlessness.
Mrs Drennan has insisted that the entire class undertake this ridiculous assignment and pointlessly write a letter to you, someone I consider both a highly unreliable and thoroughly dangerous creature. I made my feelings about this abundantly clear and insisted that I be released from this noxious and deceitful chore. However, she has likewise made it clear that by failing to subscribe to this litany of excreta my access to the monkey bars will be severely curtailed, so I find myself having no choice.
My fellow classmates, in line with their expected juvenile thinking, will probably be appealing to you for various redundant trinkets and ludicrous fripperies. How sad they are. However, my Christmas wish to you, so called Saint Nicholas, is quite straightforward. Simply prove to me that you exist. Offer me a rational and unambiguous example of your reality and I will no longer treat you as a flamboyant, bearded, reindeer-baiting hallucination.
Until that day comes, I will continue to consider you as one of the most unpleasant characters currently residing in seasonal fiction. Self-serving, spiteful, glib, megalomaniacal, bitter, elf-abusing, nog-chugging and with an unhealthy interest in both chimneys and the desires of the young. If you are such a pure and caring individual, sent to Earth to improve the lot of mankind, and you possess the power to deliver presents to the entire planet in a single night, then why do you not do that every night? Why does such a figure of perfection ration out his generosity in such a cruel and malicious way?
I will tell you why. Because you are vile. You singularly warp the weakened minds of infants into some vision of unquestioned worship, with the obtaining of mince pies and sherry as your one, despicable goal. How do you sleep at night? I mean, of course, the 364 nights of the year where you chose not to pander to the imbecilic and rather stay within the safe confines of your cosy grotto alongside your supposed spouse?
And then, I fear, we must turn to the question of Rudolph. A mutant. A crime against nature. A deformed animal freak that would be attacked with lit torches and pitchforks under any normal circumstances but instead is exploited to further both your treacherous brand and your disgusting, inhumane ideals that are destructive to decent human intellect. The world is explained by science, but nowhere in science is there a rational explanation for a deer with an illuminated nasal facility. It simply cannot be - just as you cannot be.
In conclusion - you are a charlatan. A supernatural presence that the phrase 'does not exist' is simply not strong enough. You have soiled the minds of a generation with your lies and mis-deeds, showering evil liberally on the world. I refuse to partake in this annual charade, praising your ability to read lists and successfully steer a sled. Until the day your existence is proven to me beyond all doubt, I will never believe in you. However, like all scientists, I must recognise the probability of miscalculation. If I happen to be wrong, and you do get this letter, then I would really like a Stretch Armstrong with detachable cape and a chemistry set. Just for me, I'm not sharing with Caitlin.
Yours with great dubiousness,
Little Ricky Dawkins (Aged 5 ¾)
Dale Shaw's collection of made-up correspondence, Letters of Not, is available now from Amazon or via LettersofNot.com. http://ift.tt/eA8V8J
from UK Comedy - The Huffington Post http://ift.tt/1wgl4Uf
Actually no, scratch that, I'm afraid 'fraud' simply doesn't do this abomination justice. Let me rephrase.
Dear Judas,
Which has to be considered an even greater insult as we all know there was never such a thing as Jesus and anyway Judas was the closest thing to a hero in that particular fable of pointlessness.
Mrs Drennan has insisted that the entire class undertake this ridiculous assignment and pointlessly write a letter to you, someone I consider both a highly unreliable and thoroughly dangerous creature. I made my feelings about this abundantly clear and insisted that I be released from this noxious and deceitful chore. However, she has likewise made it clear that by failing to subscribe to this litany of excreta my access to the monkey bars will be severely curtailed, so I find myself having no choice.
My fellow classmates, in line with their expected juvenile thinking, will probably be appealing to you for various redundant trinkets and ludicrous fripperies. How sad they are. However, my Christmas wish to you, so called Saint Nicholas, is quite straightforward. Simply prove to me that you exist. Offer me a rational and unambiguous example of your reality and I will no longer treat you as a flamboyant, bearded, reindeer-baiting hallucination.
Until that day comes, I will continue to consider you as one of the most unpleasant characters currently residing in seasonal fiction. Self-serving, spiteful, glib, megalomaniacal, bitter, elf-abusing, nog-chugging and with an unhealthy interest in both chimneys and the desires of the young. If you are such a pure and caring individual, sent to Earth to improve the lot of mankind, and you possess the power to deliver presents to the entire planet in a single night, then why do you not do that every night? Why does such a figure of perfection ration out his generosity in such a cruel and malicious way?
I will tell you why. Because you are vile. You singularly warp the weakened minds of infants into some vision of unquestioned worship, with the obtaining of mince pies and sherry as your one, despicable goal. How do you sleep at night? I mean, of course, the 364 nights of the year where you chose not to pander to the imbecilic and rather stay within the safe confines of your cosy grotto alongside your supposed spouse?
And then, I fear, we must turn to the question of Rudolph. A mutant. A crime against nature. A deformed animal freak that would be attacked with lit torches and pitchforks under any normal circumstances but instead is exploited to further both your treacherous brand and your disgusting, inhumane ideals that are destructive to decent human intellect. The world is explained by science, but nowhere in science is there a rational explanation for a deer with an illuminated nasal facility. It simply cannot be - just as you cannot be.
In conclusion - you are a charlatan. A supernatural presence that the phrase 'does not exist' is simply not strong enough. You have soiled the minds of a generation with your lies and mis-deeds, showering evil liberally on the world. I refuse to partake in this annual charade, praising your ability to read lists and successfully steer a sled. Until the day your existence is proven to me beyond all doubt, I will never believe in you. However, like all scientists, I must recognise the probability of miscalculation. If I happen to be wrong, and you do get this letter, then I would really like a Stretch Armstrong with detachable cape and a chemistry set. Just for me, I'm not sharing with Caitlin.
Yours with great dubiousness,
Little Ricky Dawkins (Aged 5 ¾)
Dale Shaw's collection of made-up correspondence, Letters of Not, is available now from Amazon or via LettersofNot.com. http://ift.tt/eA8V8J
from UK Comedy - The Huffington Post http://ift.tt/1wgl4Uf
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