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Globe and Mail columnist Elizabeth Renzetti. (Randy Quan For The Globe and Mail)

Globe and Mail columnist Elizabeth Renzetti.

(Randy Quan For The Globe and Mail)

Elizabeth Renzetti

All this outrage distracts Santa at this crucial time of year Add to ...

My Beloved Mankind,

You do know that Santa’s busy, right? I’ve got dolls to manufacture, a sleigh to fill, elf nerves to soothe. To quote my good friend Mr. T, I do not have time for this jibber jabber.

Yet you insist on distracting Santa at this crucial time of year. It never fails. Just when I should be making sure the suit still fits, there’s always some nonsense from south of the Circle: Do I exist? Am I still relevant? Why do my toys say “Made in China” if they’re made at the North Pole? This year, it seems, you’re all obsessed with the question of whether Santa is white.

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Yes, Santa gets Fox News, although I’m seriously thinking about cancelling cable. I heard one of its hosts, Megyn Kelly, tell the children watching Fox (if that’s even legal) that “Santa just is white … Santa is what he is.”

And then, instead of the joyous sound of carols, the only sound reaching Santa’s ears was the wittering of outraged voices. It’s also good to know that you people have so few other things to worry about that you have time to ponder the colour of Santa’s skin. At least when we hear the question “What does the Fox say?” we’ll know the answer is “Nothing worth listening to.”

Megyn, the sad truth is that Santa hasn’t looked in the mirror in a long time, not since the great cookie binge of ’67. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Santa believes that race is a social construct, based more on cultural expectation and historical anxiety than on biology. (I’ll bet you didn’t know that Santa majored in sociology, did you? With a minor in peppermint and cogs.) Oh – Mrs. Claus wants me to add that she thinks gender is a social construct, too. She’d appreciate it if Christmas cards didn’t show her in an apron all the time.

Mrs. Claus did become slightly obsessed with tracing my ancestry there for a while, with the help of the nice Mormons who keep all the records. She tried to explain it to me one night, but Santa fell asleep midway through the Ottoman Empire.

I woke up just in time to hear about this so-called war on Christmas. Apparently Santa’s job is threatened by atheists with nothing better to do than go around wishing everyone “Happy holidays” and stealing Baby Jesus from the manger to replace him with Barbie dolls.

Well, Santa’s been at this Christmas gig a long time. Perhaps some of you have red-green colour blindness and failed to notice the tinsel appearing in stores shortly after Labour Day, but as the person who has to squeeze down chimneys and sign the licensing agreements, let me tell you this: Business is booming. The workshop never needed a bailout. And you should see my mail bag!

The letters I get from children fill my heart with joy – and distract Santa from the thought that one day those children will all turn into crazy adults. There was a slightly alarming development this year, though. A bunch of men in dark glasses from Washington showed up at the Pole and asked if they might go through the children’s mail. “Just collecting metadata on toy acquisition,” one of them said. “Nothing to be concerned about.” But I heard another one say, “Lego City today, dirty bombs tomorrow,” and Santa sent them packing.

Packing! Santa shouldn’t allow himself to be sidetracked. There’s still so much to do, so many presents to organize. The sleigh’s going to be bottom-heavy this year. It’s full of coal for those who deserve it, and thank goodness Ontario finally got rid of those coal-fired plants and left me with a surplus. I’m going to need all the lumps I can get my hands on! I probably shouldn’t mention Ontario and power plants in the same sentence. Apoplexy is not a pretty sight on Christmas morning.

Mostly, the sleigh’s filled with gifts for all the deserving people on my list. For Justin Bieber I’ve got a shirt that buttons up, and a pair of nice warm pants for Miley Cyrus. I’m giving Justin Trudeau some hair product and a vial of luck, because I can’t decide which he needs more. For BlackBerry, I have … well, I have nothing. I’m Santa Claus, damn it, not a miracle worker.

Oh, goodness. Santa’s swearing again. There’s no excuse for it, even if it is a mad house at the North Pole. Since some of you in Ottawa were wondering, the answer is yes: The North Pole is indeed part of Canada. I know this because the Tim Hortons around the corner from the workshop is full of people wearing Olympic mittens and complaining about the Senate. I hear they’re about to start drilling in the parking lot. That will give you something to talk about next year!

Until then, I wish you a Merry Christmas.

Yours in peace, Santa Claus

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