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To all my Jonny Pals,
Thanks for stopping by this, the 21st annual installment of the Jonny Christmas Story. For those of you who have been with me from the beginning, I apologize that time and financial constraints have made me unable to provide the lavishly decorated booklet that I've sent to you in years past. I think you'll find that this online version has a lot of the same cool features while providing some new ones as well.
For those of you who are new to the Jonny Christmas Story, welcome to the sick world of my perverse alter ego, the noble muse Jonny M. Every year, Jonny manages to save Christmas for some poor soul despite having his own issues with alcoholism and a rather unique idea of what constitutes acceptable social behavior.
I hope you enjoy this year's story, and be sure to check out the illustrations carefully. You might just see someone you know - maybe even you!
Happy Holidays,

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Once upon a time, there was an enormous multinational
corporation called Microsoft. The company was started by
two childhood friends in a garage and quickly rose to becoming
one of the most successful business enterprises in human
history, revolutionizing daily life with the use of the
personal computer and developing a myriad of software applications
that made our existences more organized and efficient and
allowing us more freedom by significantly reducing the amount
of time it took to perform countless numbers of the daily
tasks that distracted us from leading happier and more fulfilling
lives.
Everyone on the planet despised the place.
The company had grown so quickly and with such a Machiavellian
focus on squashing its competition that it was generally
perceived as a heartless monster that had gobbled up promising
opposition that might have provided even more effective
and ingenious tools. But Microsoft’s dominance was
waning because of one rapidly growing opponent who provided
such vastly superior products that Microsoft couldn’t
block its ascendance.
“I hate Apple!” screamed Bill
Gates, the company’s Professor Moriarty-like CEO,
in the middle of a board meeting. The canny chairman had
cleverly announced his retirement from running the day-to-day
operations of the company in 2008, but that was just a ruse
to keep the public-at-large from being aware of his nefarious
schemes (and because he makes a more recognizable antagonist
for this idiotic story than Microsoft’s current top
executives, Ray Ozzie and Craig Mundie). “They’re
crapping out remarkable technology like iPads and iPhones
on a daily basis while we’re still trying to figure
out patches to fix the holes in Windows Vista! Not only
that, but they have way better TV commercials than we do!”
“Not to worry, chief,” assured
Microsoft’s Marketing Director Lucifer Black. “We’re
still the leader in the industry by a wide margin because
back when we had no competition, we made international commerce
so dependent on the Windows operating system that it would
be unthinkable to change now.”
“That’s fine for the moment,”
said Gates as he swallowed a pint of virgin’s blood
from the skull of a sheep. “But what about twenty
years from now? With the way Apple is gaining on us with
their clever marketing campaigns and brilliant technology,
we can’t keep this up forever!”

“I hate Apple!” screamed Bill Gates.
“I have a plan,” said Black as
he absentmindedly stroked the pentagram that was carved
into his forearm. “It’s true that we can’t
compete with Apple’s advances in technology, but we
can outdistance them in Marketing.”
“How?” sneered Gates. “We
already tried to humiliate the actor who plays the Mac in
their commercials by getting him to appear in that god-awful
Drew Barrymore movie Going the Distance. If that
didn’t derail their ad campaign, what will?”
“The Mac ads are only seen by a relatively
small amount of the world’s population,” snickered
Black. “What we need to do is get our hands on a mailing
list so massive that we can reach out to more people than
Apple could ever hope to touch. Then, we can begin a global
plot to discredit the company so badly that Microsoft will
once again be hailed as without competition in the industry.”
“Buh…,” gasped Gates, “but
there’s only one mailing list so massive that it could
achieve the kind of effect you’re talking about.”
“That’s correct,” responded
Black as he petted Gates’ three-headed dog that was
guarding the entrance to the office. “I’m talking
about Santa Claus’ naughty-and-nice list at the North
Pole!”
“I love it!” roared Gates with
an evil laugh as an ominous blast of thunder crashed across
the Seattle sky. “Not only does it return our uncontested
dominance in the industry but it gives this moronic story
a direct connection to Christmas, which is usually tenuous
at best! But we’ve tried to hack Claus’ systems
in the past without success because his firewall was constructed
by Apple and is therefore not vulnerable to the massive
amount of viruses that can topple a Windows operating system
like the Big Bad Wolf taking out the first little pig’s
house of straw. How can we possibly get access?”
“We must place an operative in Claus’ I.T. department,”
sneered Black. “If we can get a man in the inside,
we can get him to load the virus onto Claus’ system
and it will erase the list from his database and paste it
onto ours.”
“Erase?” responded Gates. “Do you mean…”
“The virus only moves files,”
said Black ominously, “it doesn’t copy them.
Once we have Claus’ list, it will be deleted from
his server forever.”
Gates shuddered. “But without his list…”
“His operation will be thrown into
chaos,” replied Black with an evil grin. “He
won’t be able to deliver any presents because he won’t
know who was naughty or who was nice. The reindeer won’t
have the addresses of the good little boys and girls to
deliver the toys to. Credit Card information will be gone,
so even if someone did get a gift, they wouldn’t get
a receipt so that they could exchange it for what they really
wanted. Christmas will have to be canceled!”
“And since Apple programmed his firewall,” smiled
Gates while doing a little jig, “they’ll be
the ones who will take the blame!”
“There’s just one problem,”
said Black. "All of our operatives are well known to Apple
and to Claus’ people. And the plan is so evil that
we’ll never be able to find anyone working outside
of Microsoft who’s low enough to agree to do it. For
this to work, we’ll need to insert someone who is
such a simpleton that he has no idea why he’s really
there. Who can we get who’s that stupid?"
At about this time, a young muse named Jonny
M. was being fired from his job at the Seattle science fiction
convention. The noble muse had been engaged to direct a
mash-up of Star Trek with Gilbert & Sullivan but had
misunderstood his assignment and instead staged a production
of HMS Pinafore as a take-off of A Star is Born. The muse
could hear the catcalls from the auditorium as Little Buttercup
announced dramatically into a microphone “This is
Mrs. Captain Corcoran” and as the angry audience stormed
the box office for refunds, the convention organizers
threw Jonny into a nearby dumpster on top of a discarded
light saber that made an unfortunate bull’s eye into
his descending rectum. The muse spent the next week on his
stomach in his proctologist’s office recovering from
the trauma, and to pass the time perused old copies of Wired Magazine. Just as his traumatized anal cavity was given
a clean bill of health, he was distracted by a “For
Hire” listing next to advertisements for sea monkeys
and x-ray specs on the back cover:

The muse’s eyes widened at the massive remuneration
the job offered - more than three times what he was offered
when he ran for governor of California in Jonny’s
Gubernatorial Christmas – so he high-tailed it to
Silicon Valley.
When Jonny arrived at the temp agency, he
was shocked at the number of anti-social computer geeks
who were lined up to apply for the position. The economy
had taken such a nose-dive and there was such a glut on
the market of people with I.T. experience that even lowly
temp jobs were in high demand. The noble muse looked sadly at
the enormous queue of pasty-faced losers in front of him
and (taking heart at the idea that the title of this idiotic
story indicated that he would probably be the one to get
the gig) took his place at the end of the line.

When Jonny arrived at the temp agency, he
was shocked at the number of anti-social computer geeks
who were lined up to apply for the position.
“No, no, no!” exclaimed Black as he stood behind
the lowly temp agency clerk who was conducting the interviews.
“These people are far too intelligent for what I need.
I thought you said that all of your temps were either prison
parolees or Haitian refugees. Why are they all so smart?”
“It’s not my fault!” replied
the clerk. “The Jewish Federation of Greater Los Angeles
laid off so many employees that’s there was a huge
rush of unemployed people.”
“Ah, yes - The Jewish Federation of
Greater Los Angeles,” replied Black wistfully. “The
only organization even more evil than we are. But this is
no time for bitter, inside jokes about Jon Mullich’s
recent layoff! I don’t want any more excuses. You
get me the person I need, or Microsoft will e-mail your
wife a list of all the Internet porn you’ve been looking
at that we’ve been tracking through a cookie in Windows
Vista. I need a moron, and now!”
Just as the words were leaving Black’s
mouth, Jonny shyly stuck his head in the door. The muse’s
vacant stare and sloping forehead were a dead giveaway that
he was just the person needed for the assignment. But something
was missing.
“In all the past versions of these stories,”
said Black, “you always stagger into the room blind
drunk and throw up on the person who’s hiring you.
Why aren’t you hammered?”
“I can’t afford liquor right
now,” responded Jonny as he hung his head in shame.
“I won’t be able to get drunk until the traditional
gifts of alcohol start coming in for my birthday on December
15th.”
“Makes sense,” replied Black.
“Well, go ahead and throw up on the clerk so we can
get on with this stupid thing.”
Sadly, Jonny walked over to the desk, stuck
his finger down his throat and began projectile vomiting
on the temp agency guy. As Black beheld the blank look on
Jonny’s face as he unceremoniously spewed the contents
of his stomach lining in the man’s lap, the Microsoft
lackey knew that he had found exactly what he was looking
for. Black put his finger next to his nose as Jonny collapsed
in agony at the clerk’s feet, and leaned over and
yanked the muse’s head until they were looking at
each other in the face.
“Congratulations,” said Black.
“You’re the new temp worker in Santa Claus’
I.T. department.”

Jonny hoped that no one at Santa’s
Workshop would recognize him from his stints of working
there in The Year Jonny Saved Christmas and Jonny’s
Easter Christmas. But the strange gremlin who ran the department
assured Jonny that he needn’t worry about it.
“Santa and the Elves never come around
here,” said the IT gremlin. “They’re allergic
to anything having to do with technology. If they had their
way, this place would still be operating with kerosene lamps
and fairy dust.”
“Why isn’t it?” asked the
muse as he beheld the massive servers that were locked behind
a thick glass wall.

“Santa and the Elves never come around here,” said the IT gremlin.
“It’s the naughty-and-nice list,”
replied the gremlin. “As recently as around 1940,
there were only about two billion people on the planet and
Santa could maintain the list using an abacus. And it made
it easier because he would automatically put all Jews, blacks
and gays on the “naughty” list, although all
documentation from that era has been permanently sealed
in an agreement with Amnesty International. But now there
are over six billion people on the planet and it got to
be too much for him. So he brought in Steve Jobs and Apple
to put together a computer system. But the old man never
comes near it – he only wants a print-out of the list
on December 15th, which I understand is coincidentally your
birthday on which gifts of alcohol are traditionally accepted.”
“So the list is frozen on December 15th?”
asked Jonny, his liver grumbling upon hearing the word “alcohol”.
“No!” replied the gremlin testily.
“That’s only the date that the list is first
printed out so we could plug in another reference to your
birthday. The system continues making adjustments to it
until minutes before Santa leaves on Christmas Eve.”
“And what do I do?” asked Jonny.
“You need to input all the last-minute
updates to the naughty-and-nice list,” replied the
gremlin. “You can start by shit-canning the upper
management of The Jewish Federation of Greater Los Angeles into the ‘naughty’
pile.”

Jonny found that he enjoyed the work. There were lots of
last-minute updates to the list so he was always busy, but
he was working on a Macintosh computer so his labors seemed
almost effortless. And since no one from the I.T. Department
remembered him from his past unfortunate experiences at
the North Pole, he made many friends there so that when
it was finally his birthday on December 15th, Jonny was
inundated with gifts of alcohol. But the muse never forgot
why he was there and even as the other staffers were getting
ripped out of their minds celebrating the muse’s birthday,
Jonny was busy printing out the list.

Jonny's co-workers got ripped celebrating his birthday.
“I don’t even know why they make
us print this first draft,” slurred one worker as
she threw back a shot of Maker’s Mark that was a gift
from Jonny’s old buddy Eddie Frierson. “The
thing undergoes massive changes up until the very last second
on Christmas Eve, so the one we’re printing now is
going to be obsolete in a few hours. Hell, Glenn Beck was
on the ‘nice’ list until he held that idiotic
rally at the National Mall and pretended to be Martin Luther
King.”
“That doesn’t matter,” replied
the muse as he carefully studied the database. “Christmas
is the most joyous time of the year, and the nice boys and
girls of the world need to be rewarded for being good. And
it gives the naughty ones an incentive to be good next year.”
“Oh, you’re just parroting the
employee handbook,” smirked Jonny’s drunken
co-worker. “Personally, Santa creeps me out. It’s
bad enough that he knows when I’m awake, but I draw
the line at his seeing me when I’m sleeping. I don’t
wear pajamas, and I’m sure he had some kind of a hand
in those steamy pictures of me getting on the Internet!”
Before Jonny could respond, the gremlin approached
the muse’s desk and asked for the list.
“Here you go,” replied the handsome
muse, stacking the massive printout on his boss’s
cart. “I was surprised at some of the people who were
considered naughty and some who were nice. I expected to
see Sarah Palin and Bill O’Reilly on the ‘naughty’
list; but to include Jon Stewart just because the Rally
to Restore Sanity was lame is going too far. And why is
Shannon Tweed on the ‘nice’ list? She hasn’t
done a worthwhile nude scene in years.”
“It could all change tomorrow,”
replied the gremlin as he straightened the stacks of paper.
“And which list were you on?”
Jonny hesitated in replying, sending his green
boss into fits of hysterical laughter.
“It’s all right,” chuckled
the gremlin. “We all go into the list and futz with
it to make sure we come out on the ‘nice’ side.
Who the hell wants a lump of coal in their stocking in this
economy? Don’t worry about it!”
The muse breathed a sigh of relief as he looked
at the clock and saw that it was 5:00 and time to go home.
His co-workers were still passed out drunk from swilling
down all the gifts of alcohol that Jonny had received for
his birthday, so the still-youthful-looking muse skipped
over to the North Pole Pub to continue the celebration on
his own. When he arrived, the only people at the bar were
the bartender and two men sitting on stools who almost looked
as though that had been waiting for Jonny to arrive. Jonny
recognized one as the man who was at the temp agency when
he was hired for the gig – Lucifer Black. The other
man who sported a luxurious black mustache looked vaguely
familiar but Jonny couldn’t quite put his finger on
how he recognized him, and Black had no intention of telling
the muse that it was actually his boss Bill Gates in a brilliantly
clever disguise.

Bill Gates wore a brilliantly clever disguise.
“Hello, Jonny!” said Black as
he moved over to the next stool to give the muse a seat.
“You remember me – Lucifer Black; I was the
guy responsible for getting you this cushy job. And this
is my friend ….”
“Paul Allen!” interjected Gates,
using the name of the Microsoft co-founder as a pseudonym.
“Yes,” replied Black, “Paul
Allen. Paul and I were here in the North Pole on business
and we decidedly to stop in for a drink. Say ... isn’t
today December 15th, your birthday when gifts of alcohol
are graciously accepted?”
“It is!” replied Jonny enthusiastically.
“Well then,” chucked Black, “Paul
and I had better do our part in getting you liquored up.”
Jonny thought that he was in heaven as Black
and “Allen” bought him drink after drink after
drink, until the muse was finally loopy enough for them
to get to the point.
"If I'm not mistaken" said Black, “today is the day that you folks in I.T. printed out the first
draft of Santa’s naughty-and-nice list.”
“You shaid it,” slurred the muse
as he bent ominously forward, the first warning sign that
he was about to violently hurl his guts out on the person
sitting next to him.
“It seems a terrible waste of manpower,”
sighed Black, not noticing that Jonny was slowly descending
into a 45° angle and aiming his mouth right at Black’s
$300 shirt. “If only there was some kind of software
available that could systematically do the updates for you.
The work could get done, and you would have more time to
drink and masturbate.”
Jonny suddenly pulled it together when he
heard the word “masturbate” and became enthralled
in the conversation. Gates saw the opening that he was looking
for.
“Why, I know exactly the software you’re
talking about,” said the Microsoft CEO as he took
a flash drive from his pocket and placed it on the bar.
“All anyone in Santa’s I.T. Department would
have to do is put this flash drive in any computer on Santa’s
internal network at 11:59 p.m. on Christmas Eve and all
of the updates to the naughty-and-nice list that you’ve
been doing manually would be inputted systematically.”
“And that means I could drink and masturbate?”
garbled the Jonny as he tightened his jaw in preparation
for the geyser of vomit that was about to explode from his
alcohol-drenched stomach.
“And that means you could drink and
masturbate,” responded Gates.
There are few occasions in human history which
can be reasonably compared to what happened next. The most
obvious correlation was the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in
A.D. 79, but since no one survives from that disaster to
compare it to the carnage that occurred at the North Pole
Pub, we can only assume that the two events bore comparison.
All that is known for certain is that the public house had
to be demolished after being flooded with over two feet
of gelatinous vomit, the bartender spent the rest of his
life in an insane asylum, and Gates spent almost a third
of his fortune to have the stench of the muse’s puke
eradicated from his and Black’s skin and clothing.
The only person who seemed unmoved by the destruction was
Jonny himself, who nonchalantly wiped the excess vomit from
his lower lip with a bar napkin, grabbed the flash drive
from off the bar, and exited into the winter night to find
another place to keep drinking at.

The gremlin grew nervous over the next nine
days leading to Christmas Eve. Jonny had been his best worker
in the preceding weeks, but whenever he saw him now, the
muse was reeking of alcohol or rubbing lotion on his chafed
and calloused hands. He finally called Jonny into his office
for a conference.

The gremlin called Jonny into his office.
“What gives, Jonny?” asked the
gremlin as the muse was barely able to maintain his balance
to stay seated on the chair. “You used to be my best
guy, but now you’re always drinking or diddling yourself
in the men’s room. The updates to the naughty/nice
list aren’t being made, and it’s going to be
a disaster if Santa doesn’t have accurate metrics
when he takes off on his flight. It’s not just your
career you’re messing with; it’s mine and everyone
else in the I.T. Department.”
Jonny chuckled to himself as he patted the
flash drive tucked safely in his pocket. “I guarantee to you that the list will
be updated on schedule,” slurred the muse.
The gremlin looked at Jonny skeptically. The
muse was teetering on his chair with a half-empty bottle
of moonshine in his lap. But, like everyone at the North
Pole, the kindly green creature was an excellent judge of
character, and there was something about Jonny’s vacuous
stare that won his belief.
“That’s all I needed to hear,”
said the gremlin with a friendly smile. “Santa needs
the final list at exactly 11:59 p.m. on Christmas Eve. If
you say it will be ready, then it will be ready.”
The gremlin’s words were falling on
deaf ears by this point, as Jonny had already passed out
and was sleeping in a pile on the office floor. The I.T.
head pulled a blanket out of his office closet and covered
the muse with it, and then went into the server room to
map the reindeer’s flight for the big night.
There is always a sense of magic in the air
in the days leading up to Christmas, and this year seemed
even more special than most. The muse spent his days happily
flogging his bishop and drinking himself into a state of
catatonia, while being sure to be sober enough to go out
into the world and take in the lights of the season and
celebrate the special time of year with his brothers and
sisters in the human family. The gremlin uncustomarily got
to spend more time with his wife and kids, confidant that
Jonny would come through on his promise to deliver the list
on time. And even the dastardly Bill Gates and Lucifer Black
were having the time of their lives, happy in knowing that
they would soon topple Apple once and for all and have the
greatest direct mail list that was ever compiled in the
bargain.
When Christmas Eve finally arrived, Santa’s
Village was bustling. Santa was taking test runs with the
reindeer, the elves were hustling to put together the final
shipment of toys, and the I.T. gremlin was running the metrics
for Santa’s flight using the obsolete data from the
naughty-and-nice list that was generated on December 15th.
Normally, the temp worker who ran the list would have put
in a week of all-nighters to get the data revised and uploaded;
but the gremlin had faith that the muse wouldn’t let
him down even as he glanced wistfully over at Jonny’s
empty cubicle.
The muse finally shuffled into the office
at 11:00 p.m., tipsy from Christmas cheer but still sober
enough to do what he had to do. When the gremlin saw Jonny
saunter in, the green creature threw his arm around his
friend.
“I’m so happy you’re here!”
said the gremlin. “I always trusted you, but I was
beginning to get nervous. Do you have the data loaded for
the revised list?”
“Not yet,” answered the muse as
he took the flash drive out of his pocket. “I will
in just a minute though.”
With that, Jonny plugged the drive into his
USB port. As soon as the computer opened a window that read
“New Hardware Detected”, Gates and Black jumped
out of a janitor’s closet and began doing a mad twist.
“Success is ours!” screamed Gates.
“The second you plugged that flash drive into your
USB port, your servers were wiped clean and your precious
naughty-and-nice list was uploaded to Silicon Valley! There’s
nothing that can stop us now. Nothing!”
The gremlin collapsed in a heap on the floor.
“I trusted you!” screamed the
little green man. “Now, not only is Christmas finished,
but my career is over. Where do you think a little green
gremlin can find work besides Santa’s village? Keebler's isn't hiring, and neither are the Muppets! My
life is over!”
It was only then that the trio noticed that
Jonny wasn’t paying attention to them, but was instead
focused on a video game on his monitor.
“How can your PC be up?” asked
Gates. "That virus was designed to render the entire network
completely useless.”
“Do you mean this virus?” asked
Jonny, holding up the flash drive that Black gave him in
the bar. "You don’t think that I’d trust a couple
of yahoos like you two.”
It was only then that the Microsoft men realized that the flash drive Jonny had inserted into his USB port was different from the one he had taken from the bar.
“Then,” asked Gates, “what’s
on the flash drive you put in your computer?”
“Pong,” replied Jonny. “As
far as I’m concerned, still the best computer game
ever created.”
Gates was speechless, but the silence was quickly shattered by an anguished cry from the gremlin.
“What does it matter?” shouted the little green man. “The list hasn’t been
revised! Santa won’t know who’s been naughty
and who’s been nice! He won’t know who to give
presents to and who to give coal. Christmas is finished!
I’m finished.”
“Why does Christmas have to be about
being a payday for what Santa considers proper behavior?”
asked Jonny as he watched the digitized Pong ball float
out of reach of his paddle. “And who does Santa think
he is, being the final arbiter for good and bad conduct?
If you ask me, Santa needs to consult a stylist and a personal
trainer before he goes pointing any fingers.”
“That’s easy for you to say,”
cried the gremlin. “This is my career!”
“Hey, I had some major setbacks
to my career this year,” replied the muse. “It
was pretty devastating at the time, but once the shock was
over I realized that I was giving all of my power away to
some people who weren’t any better than I am; just
because their names were printed higher than mine on an
organizational flow chart. Jobs come and jobs go, but the
dignity and maturity that we take to them will follow us
forever.”
“So the list wasn’t updated?”
murmured the gremlin.
“Sure it was,” smiled Jonny. “You
guys paid me to do a job and I take that responsibility
very seriously. But I could see that your methods of doing
things were redundant and wasteful, so I outsourced the
work to the people whose jobs were outsourced to somebody
else. The list was updated hours ahead of schedule.”
“And I suppose you made sure to put
yourself on the ‘nice’ list,” smirked
Gates.
“I didn’t check and I don’t
care,” replied Jonny while he made a last, desperate
sweep for the Pong ball that floated just past his reach.
“All I can do is live my life the way I think it should
be lived. If that gets me rewards from the Powers that Be,
great. If it doesn’t, I know from experience that
I’ll get rewards from someplace else; quite possibly
from somewhere where I never expected them. All I know is
that I love Christmas, and I don’t need presents or
lumps of coal to remind me of that. Sometimes I’m
naughty and sometimes I’m nice, and I like to think
that the scale tips a little more towards the ‘nice’
side every day that I’m alive. That’s the only
present that I need.”

Gates, Black and the gremlin stared sadly out the window watching the elves pile the final toys on Santa's sleigh.
The trio was stunned, not prepared for such
a mature resolution in a Jonny Christmas Story. Gates, Black
and the gremlin stared sadly out the window watching the elves
pile the final toys on Santa's sleigh and wondered if this
meant that this was the end of Jonny’s grotesque tradition
of celebrating the holiday. Just as everything seemed hopeless,
they heard a sound so unmistakable that it could only mean
one thing. They spun around to see that the muse had chug-a-lugged
an entire bottle of Tequila and was violently puking his
guts out, finally passing out in a pool of his own vomit
on the office floor.
“It’s going to be a Merry Christmas
after all!” screamed the gremlin.
So all was happiness at Santa’s village.
It turned out that there was actually a bug in Apple’s
latest upgrade of the naughty-and-nice software so that
everybody wound up on the ‘nice’ list and got
a present, which was great for everybody except about two-thousand
people in Siberia who were dependent on the lumps of coal
to get them through the freezing winter; so about half of
them died. The gremlin was promoted to Santa’s Chief
of Staff, whereupon his skin returned to flesh color from
not being constantly exposed to the radiation emitted from
the server room. Bill Gates realized that it was okay to
be #2 in the industry, secure in the knowledge that he went
to sleep every night on a massive pile of money. And everyone
at the North Pole, rich and poor, young and old, had the
best Christmas ever.
But happiest of all was young Jonny M. As
he looked around at the joy in the hearts of his new friends,
he felt a glow of satisfaction in knowing that he had contributed
to it. So giving a final nod of his head to Santa’s
Village, he uploaded the contents of the naughty-and-nice
list to his Google Docs account and sold it to a direct
mail company based in the Cayman Islands for two million
dollars.
And happiness to you, dear friend. Whether
you are celebrating Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa (I doubt
if any of you are celebrating Kwanzaa, but it makes me look
hip and cool by mentioning it), or Jonny’s birthday
on December 15th in which gifts of alcohol cannot be overemphasized
as an appropriate gift, remember that the only soul who
you ultimately need to be validated by is the one you encounter
in the mirror every day. Once you receive its approval,
the rest of the world is sure to follow.
And know that you always have a loving
friend in Jonny M.

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MERRY CHRISTMAS! |

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