Dear Santa (a billionaire’s letter to Saint Nicholas),
It has been a long time since I stopped believing in you and quite a while since my children did too. You’re no saint with a sleigh that flies, nor do you command reindeer who take you so high. I know this because we’d have shot you down, mounted you & your deer’s heads as proof, and our crown. I know this because we’ve got nothing to pray. We get what we want without holiday. You are no longer of use to the world. Lessons about kindness aren’t trending now.
I’m sure you know about the war–oh wait–which one? There’s always war. The forests are half, but people keep breeding. We manage nature by culling, burning, and poisoning. Our peanut butter is creamier than ever before. The parrots are dead or caged, and what’s more? They’re better for it. We treat them so well. Flora and fauna are worth more–oh well. Look at these beautiful wrought iron bars, and guess what! We took that bird to Paris, then Mars.
It’s our second home, and we couldn’t be happier. The land is now barren but look what we’ve planted there. The place doesn’t need a gift-delivering man to teach about goodness and ruin our plans. This is the new world and one we will shape.
Our riches and experiments would leave you agape. Our children aren’t bred to play and twirl. We grow them in test tubes with the occasional swirl. Our women are superior in every way, the right height, complexion, health records, okay.
You see, we don’t need your sweet folklore ways nor threats that you won’t come if we don’t behave. We’re masters of the universe who watched others die–the mere fodder, nay, stepping stones, who helped out our plight. Now leave me to lavish myself in this cream. It’s laced with gold. My skin looks a dream. We’re having a dinner for the new congress, writing history and preparing our address. You see–only a handful of beings will be spared. The ones who are able will build what we dare. We, The Superior, Ultra-Wealthy, thank you for your service. Enclosed is a check. I’m sure it’s enough. Don’t come here again. If you do, you’ll be stuffed.
Season’s Greetings,
The B’s