Dear Bildo.I would like to take some time today to respond. This may get a bit graphic, so reader beware. Let's hope the pudgy bastard is reading...
Pleae try to remember that I'm Santa Claws. I know if you've been naughty or nice, and I know where you live, and despite the extra pounds I've put on these past few centuries I'm still capable of squeezing down your chimney (or any other available rooftop duct) sneaking into your room while you sleep, and plucking out your eyes. Oh, you'll get your Xbox 360 alright, but I hope you can play Halo 3 by sound alone, you lucky, little boy.
Now release the portly lass I call my wife, and nobody gets hurt.
S.C. aka The Fat Man.
Dear Obese and Grossly Flatulent Excuse for a Man,
I do hope your previous letter was in jest. For you see, I found it rather funny. Comical in that you think I could take it seriously. I do not sleep this time of year, for the fear that your lard-tacular arse will eat me while I snooze. And I certainly shan't be without protection. I know your weakness, and I am not talking about the animal porn, either. I'll give you a hint... I wouldn't drink the milk if I were you, though I know how hard you find it to ignore the treats all the sheep leave for you, you diabetic prick.
I have enclosed one of the sausage links your wife calls a toe. Please don't eat it, you chunky monkey. Put it in some ice up there, since there's miles of it and save it for the poor woman. Provided you bring me my 360 and leave me and my family in safety and unharmed, you will see her again.
Without a hint of insincerity,
PS: Oh, and please stop sleeping with the reindeer at night. I can hear their cries of pain even in Ohio. It does upset your lady, as well. At least be quieter about it.
PPS: I was kidding about that last part, but if I at all worried you... you're a sick, sick man. I mean really... gross, dude.