All I Want for Christmas

Dear Santa,
I know you’re taking up a lot of the slack for God this time of year, so before I add my own voice to the mix, may I just start by saying what a fine job I think you’re doing? Really. The Big Guy Upstairs should just go ahead and hire you on full time for the entire year. You know, kinda like a Heavenly Secretary of State, albeit without the Prada heels.

Anyway.

If you take a moment to look back through my history for the year and ignore that one teensy, eensy moment I had with the jerk off, er, impolite elderly gentleman, in front of me in line at Sam’s Club, you’ll see that my nice outweighed my naughty by what can only be considered a major improvement over last year.

With that in mind, I herewith present you with Moi's Christmas 2007 Wish List:

1. You know how you can innocently start off a Saturday night with a few slices of pizza, a couple beers, and a piece of chocolate raspberry blackout cake and then wake up on Monday morning, a mere two days afterward, and suddenly find five extra pounds attached to your happy ass? But then it takes a papal dispensation plus about five bazillion months of eating cardboard-flavored rice cakes to divest your ass of that extra weight? Well, I’d like that whole process reversed, por favor.

2. I want you to make Brad Pitt’s Christmas wishes come true. Not that I have any special fondness for Brad, mind you, and, no, my dislike has nothing to do with being on Team Anybody. I mean, I've been to Springfield, Missouri. All it takes is about 30 minutes inside one of their Steak ‘n’ Shakes to understand why Mr. Pitt let loose of that golden-glowed, Malibu-surfer-chick-meets-Dolce-and-Gabbana wife of his in favor of a woman whose personality is like one of those pousse-café drinks from Pat O’Brien’s in New Orleans: all kinds of multi-colored layers of C-R-A-Z-Y. The man was genetically predisposed to start slummin' at some point.

Nope, with his $500-an-hour personal trainer abs and the $10,000 a month he spends on bottles of what is basically tarted-up petroleum jelly to pamper his delicate facial skin, Mr. Pitt does a fine job all by his lonesome of making Moi go, meh. What I do like about him, however, is the very real passion he has for New Orleans, thoughtful urban development, and innovative architecture.

With those passions in mind, Mr. Pitt is pledging $5 million dollars of his own money and enlisting the assistance of innovative urban planners and architects from across the globe to raise enough money to build 150 new homes in New Orleans's Ninth Ward. All at the cost of about $150,000 each, a pittance by today's $2-bazillion-per-square foot Taco Bell Mansion standards. Still, it doesn't take a math wizard capable of carrying his zeros to know that's nonetheless some mighty mucho dinero right there, Party People.

As S.B. says, let's just forget for one moment Pitt's annoying ass celebrity. The man is doing what we Americans do best: instead of whining and crying and beating our breasts for our gub’ment to do something, we’re saying, fuck the gub’ment. We can do this ourselves. We can open our hearts and our pocket books, roll up our sleeves, and get down to the business of building something.

And sweet jeebus, just look at these homes. They’re so gorgemous, I want to buy one!


So, please, Santa, work some magic so these people who lost everything dear to them can once again know the solace and safety of Home.

3. And before you starting worrying, you can go ahead and slip Moi some of these while you're at it:

Yours in peace, joy, love, and (Christ)ian Louboutins,
Moi