Bill's letter to Santa

December 1998
Bill’s Letter to Santa
By Bob Coskrey

Dear Santa,

I’m writing you because you’re the only one who won’t go public with this information. Everyone else is just itching to get even with me for telling all those lies and I know I haven’t been a particularly good boy this year, with getting my Yule Log decorated by my own special little helper, Monica, but I only did that a few times, and now I’m ready to try to be good—from now on, although I don’t mind admitting to you it’s going to be very, very hard, if you get my drift.

Believe me (somebody?), I’ve tried everything: Ice packs in my shorts; emergency anti-sex aids, such as photos of Janet Reno and Madelyn Albright at the White House pool party in their thong bikinis, and I’m sorry to say of Hillary in hers that I took with a special ultra-wide-angle lens.

So, I guess you won’t be bringing me anything at all, but that’s really not fair, Santa, cause I’ve really tried to control myself, but like I said, nothing works.

I’ve got this bunch of ministers now who try to counsel me whenever I—you know—get some bad thoughts. The deal works like this: Whenever Slick Willie Junior (that’s how I refer to my you-know-what) asserts himself, I call these “Lust Busters,” and one of them keeps my occupied on the phone while the other rushed over here to exorcise the demon from my undershorts. But after two months of constantly calling these people for help, I feel like it’s a waste of their time as well as mine. Here’s a sample of what goes on:

Me (frantic): Pastor, you’ve got to come quickly. It’s me, Bill again. I was watching this innocuous ETV Special on cantaloupes when, suddenly, out of the blue, this thought crashes through my brain: “Man, get a load of those cantaloupes. I sure do miss Monica.”

Minister (on the phone): Get hold of yourself, Bill—I mean, calm down. Think pure thoughts till the Reverend Jimmy can get there. Go stand in a cold shower or something.”

That’s another thing, Santa, why are they sending Jimmy Swaggart, for God’s sake? That dude just might even be hornier than I am. Well, could be that’s the reason, next to that creep anybody—even me—looks moral! Or maybe they thought he could empathize with me.

But the guy just exacerbates (even that word give me naughty thoughts) matters. He wants me to go out with him to help him, as he puts it, “plunge the staff of moral rectitude into the fornicators of the world.” Hey, I’m already in enough trouble, I don’t need to be associated with this Dick Morris in a pulpit.

And frankly, there’s nothing those clowns can do to get these thoughts out of my head anyway. They keep reading to me out of the Bible and telling me to read it whenever the Devil is taunting me. Unfortunately, that’s not working at all, cause—and I know this is shocking to you, Santa—but whenever I see a Bible, while of course it is a symbol of the word of God, to me the incorrigible sinner that I am, it’s also a symbol of a motel room and that just gets those nasty ideas running through my poor tortured brain again.

For that matter, Santa, practically everything has a sexual connotation for me.

I try to get away from the lures of Satan and play some golf and all the focus in on balls and holes and clubs; I watch a football game and they’re talking about tight ends, and getting into the end zone, and splitting the uprights, and then there’s those bouncing cheerleaders; I watch a basketball game and they’re doing all that dunking and scoring, and talking about having a feel for the game and it seems like somebody’s score is always stuck on 69. And then, they’ve got the cheerleaders, too.

I look for solace in the rose garden and I’m surrounded by “bushes” and “prickly” thorns.

I gaze out over the horizon and there it is, the Washington Monument, our country’s greatest phallic symbol, aside from me, I guess.

I am trapped in a world of dirty double-entendres and can’t escape. Please send something to help me. How can I do the people’s work (unless some of those people are fine looking, sex-crazed babes)? See what I mean!

Anyway, Santa, you can see I’m trying, so if you could just see your way to send me something to resolve this problem, I’d be very appreciative. A psychiatrist can’t help me. Hell, sex is all those people talk about, so don’t tell me to see one.

And whatever you do, please pay no attention to Hillary’s letter. I know she’s asked for one of those Australian sheepherder’s tools. So for God’s sake, don’t send it—it’s not a joke. She’ll use the damn thing—on me.

It’s “in your hands” (well, no, that definitely won’t work). I’m just going to stay here in my office till I hear from you. No TV, no Bibles, and I’m going to get them to cover the Washington Monument with a tarpaulin. Hurry!

Sincorely—
I mean sincerely,
Bill