AMP INVESTIGATES: We got exclusive access to letters mailed to Santa. Here’s what we found.

Now that they’re letting anyone do “news” these days, it seems only fitting for AMP’s truest medialcoholics to get in on this. And luckily for you filthy schmucks, us journarizzts have got the scoop to end all scoops. A Coldstone Gotta Have It-sized scoop, if you will. Following a complicated evening involving five drinks at a bar, a beautiful stranger in the back of a mailvan, no fewer than 153 violations of 18 U.S. Code § 1708, and a 11:23 a.m. sprint of shame as we wonder what we’re doing with our lives, a series of letters written to one Mr. Kristopher Kringle were acquired by our finest investigateurs (we also ended up learning French — it truly was a wild night). Attached are a relevant selection of the skillfully-found letters in their entirety.

When reached for comment on how he thought these letters reflected on him and the Christmas spirit generally, Mr. Kringle told us to “fuck off and die.” AMP’s official response is that we maintain our AMPerian commitment to fucking and Comet commitment to being passively suicidal.

Dear Father Christmas:

I’ve heard the little flying reindeer have gone on strike this year. It’s all over the news. Those woke mobsters have formed a happy little union and are threatening to ruin Christmas over “decent working conditions,” “getting paid for the work they do,” and “guys we haven’t been paid in months so I had to get a second job shovelling snow and that’s frankly unsustainable, especially considering what a high-pressure job we have ensuring that all the air traffic in the North Pole runs smoothly.”  Lazy, entitled bastards. The whole lot of ‘em.

You know, these reindeer pulled the same stunt back in ‘81. And you remember what you did then? That’s right. You looked at all 11,000 reindeer in their pretty little faces and fired them. I mean, sure, they weren’t technically fired; instead, they, um, all “forfeited their positions” by not returning to work, y’know ;)? And sure, maybe they were replaced by scabs who weren’t properly trained for the job, but that’s just business. Who cares about what catastrophes happened next?

With this in mind, I write in to volunteer my services for the sake of the free market. Break the strike. Put me in, coach. Have I ever flown once in my life? No. Do I have the training to land a Boeing Sleighty-47? Also no. But I have wings, and that makes me more qualified than the reindeer asking for “basic dignity.” What absolute jokes.

Sincerely,

Paul Guin

Dear Kris,

How’ve you been, man? It’s been a while. I hope you and the wife are doing well. Anyways, I’m writing to ask you to give my son a phat lump of coal this year. He’s been very bad and I just don’t know what to do anymore. He’s proudly going about flaunting as one of those homosexuals. He’s got the blue hair and he’s even trying to use pronouns.

This whole thing is preposterous. He’s never pronouned before, and I don’t know what HE thinks HE’LL get from pronouning all over town. He’s even going around holding hands with this other BOY??? Disgusting.

Look, I know we all have our urges. You and I know that better than others, don’t we, my red-robed rapscallion? Summer of ‘83 — that was one hell of an ice fishing trip. But part of growing up is understanding what desires are normal in a society and sticking your tongue onto them like a triple dog dare. All this mention of tongue is bringing back ice fishing memories, actually. Anyways.

I’m hoping that with some coal and father-son bonding time over the grill, I can make a man of him yet. No son of mine will grow up to be a flaming queer — in this house, we only acknowledge flaming meat.

Yours truly,

Nught Cracker III 

P.S. I’ve heard the pike are biting this time of year if you want to go fishing again. No homo, of course.

Dear Saint Nick:

AAYYOOOO big man wazzzzup????? Happy almost-birthday to THIS GUY!!!!! Thanks again for throwing My birthday party and inviting the entire world. Except the poors and the ones from the wrong religions, of course. For some reason, people have this idea that I’m for “helping the least among us” and “inviting in the outsider” and whatnot. Wild. That would be like a Samaritan offering help to a Jew — who’s ever heard of such a thing? But you get Me, man. You get it.

And really, thank you. If it weren’t for you, people wouldn’t understand that I’m all about that cha ching, baby. The best way people can honor Me is by spending billions on stuff they will never use. Every year, people stray further from using My big day to celebrate anything spiritual and strive more toward celebrating that good ol’ green by going further and further into debt. Some avoid their friends and families entirely and still manage to spend egregious amounts of money on their #selfcare arcs that inevitably result in a mountain of plastic waste. It’s beautiful. You love to see it.

Anyways, this year I think I’d like a private jet, some new Louis Vuittons, and, wait, I think Gucci has this new watch that’s to die a third time for… let Me just email you My Amazon wishlist, and you can pick whatever plane you think I’ll look best in. Surprise Me. Happy Hondadays. Merry Chrysler.

Love and light,

Jesus Christ Superstar