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All I want for Christmas - Maxed Out

Dear Santa: Well, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I know I still owe you a thank-you note for that train set you brought me forty-some years ago.

Dear Santa:

Well, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?

I know I still owe you a thank-you note for that train set you brought me forty-some years ago. And certainly I’ve been remiss these past few decades about the whole cookies and milk for you and carrots for the reindeer thing. But with what we know today about fat and cholesterol and their relation to heart disease and stroke, you really ought to be watching your weight, if you know what I mean. Slacking off all year long and then trying to cram a whole year’s work into a single night, I mean, jeez, a jolly old guy like you could just keel over at the reins of the sleigh or be found dead, stuck in some kid’s chimney. Don’t they have salad at the North Pole?

Anyway, I’ve been aware for a couple of weeks now of a growing wish list. Things I think I’d like to have. If not for Christmas, then whenever. I’ve had lots of time to give the matter some thought, what with no snow to speak of and lots of long walks in the woods taking the place of skiing.

I think it was the hermit philosopher Henry David Thoreau who said, "The unexamined life gathers no moss," or sentiments to that effect. And there’s nothing like a walk in the woods to examine your life and ponder perplexing questions like, "Should I have spaghetti for dinner tonight?" or, "Do I really want to be Prime Minister?" Just ask Pierre Trudeau who, of course, is dead now and couldn’t answer the question even if he wanted to, although as a matter of public record he preferred spaghetti.

At the mundane end of my wish list is a pair of Neuticles® – www.neuticles.com – for Zippy the Dog who isn’t the dog he was when the week began. I remember a cartoon from a long time ago where one dog tells another dog he meets on the sidewalk, "My people love me. They cut off my balls." People say he won’t miss them. I’m not sure what he or other dogs would say if they could speak for themselves but I’m pretty sure it was Louis St. Laurent who said, "You don’t miss your water, ‘til your well runs dry." Not that that has anything to do with it.

Also for Zippy, a gross of tennis balls to replace the gross he’s already lost, eaten or squirreled away under the sofa, bed, car seats and, possibly, refrigerator. Either that or there’s something dead under there riveting his attention.

For my friends and relatives in the USofA, a president. Any president will do. The difference between the two current litigants, er, candidates, is not entirely unlike choosing between smashing your right thumb or left thumb with a hammer. Neither alternative is very attractive and the more you think about the possibility, the less you want to get close to a hammer. I’m sure Woody Allen had at least one of these guys in mind when he said, "I'd call him a sadistic, hippophilic necrophile, but that would be beating a dead horse."

Whoever gets to be president, it might not be a bad idea if he and the rest of the world leaders were treated to a little change of heart or, at minimum, a small box of common sense. Especially when it comes to the big picture things, say, global warming. Let’s face it, Santa, if it’s really the popular will to embrace global warming, drive even bigger sport virility vehicles, submerge our coastlines, turn Saskatchewan into a banana belt and give you a chance to wear red velvet shorts every once in a while, hey, I’m a go-along kind of guy and I’ll happily jump on that bandwagon. It’s not like I have any progeny I particularly care about leaving things to.

Closer to home, I know it’s a little late to be asking, since Canadians actually managed to elect a prime minister in a single day’s voting – after only 35 days of campaigning – but if it’s not too much trouble, could we possibly have candidates worth voting for next time around. No rush on this one, you’ve got anywhere from three to five years to work on it, depending on how soon Big Jean starts hearing voices telling him to call an election. Surely you must have a spare elf with charisma, leadership and a sense of national direction wasting his talents up there putting toys together. Send him on down.

Speaking of toys, I’d really appreciate a token gift of sanity for the ski biz if that’s at all possible. It’s not like skiing’s ever been exactly the sport of the downtrodden – service industry workers excluded – but the price of our toys is getting a little out of hand. We’re seeing $1,200 skis in the shops and $800 boots on top of season passes at nosebleed levels. C’mon Santa, my first three cars put together didn’t cost $1,200. If this keeps up, we’ll be up to our wazoo in insufferable, aging yuppies and their spoiled brats with nary a real person within snowball’s range.

Hmmm, as long as we’re in the realm of the patently absurd, I’m still waiting for that chocolate I asked for a long time ago that’s actually good for you, doesn’t make you fat and won’t give you zits. Haven’t forgotten, have we?

Sorry, this isn’t about really supposed to be about me. It’s about the others on my list.

Like my friends who’ve been here a really, really long time. Maybe you could bring a little more creativity and a whole lot more diligence to the people who run this place so they’ll work a little smarter and a lot harder to find some better way than property taxes to fund this ponzi game we call Whistler. You know, there’s a bunch of people who’ve lived here 25 or 30 years, who still work jobs they love – jobs that don’t happen to pay very much – who never expected their cabin would some day be worth three-quarters of a million bucks and who have a very interesting time deciding between paying property taxes or walking around naked, which a lot of them did 25 or 30 years ago. But age and gravity are not pretty things. I think it was Mark Twain who said, "There are only three things we can be certain of: death and taxes and some conniving bastard who will use one or the other to steal our property."

Let’s see, is that it? Oh yeah, something filmy and exciting for my Perfect Partner. And I’m not talking camera here, Santa.

ps: Don’t believe any of that naughty stuff you hear about me; it’s a bum rap.



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