Proofreading, people. Please. I'm begging you, here. At the very least, capitalize your name for me. And please, please double-check that you gave me a working e-mail address. I just know if you're naughty or nice; I can't pull your contact information out of the air. You want a letter from Santa, ya gotta give me something to work with.
And you know what? As long as I'm ranting, Santa does not grant any of the following Christmas wishes:
- A poodle, a pet fish, a chihuahua, and a parrot; if I put them in my bag, they get squished. No pets.
- A Lambourghini; you seriously think I can fit that under your tree? For that matter, do you know what that would do to your chimney?
- Alan Rickman; he squishes, too. You want to see Santa hauled in for kidnapping and negligent homicide? I didn't think so.
- A new boyfriend or girlfriend; that's Cupid's schtick, not Santa's. And again... squishy.
- To be an Elf; look, you're either born with pointy ears, or you aren't. Not much I can do about that.
- A job; here's the thing. There's a whole category of requests that I would love to give people. Problem is, I can't. I run a toy factory; I don't have the power to fix the world.
- An obscene sum of money; yet again I remind you that I run a toy factory. I don't run a bank, and I'm certainly not going to start printing money up here.
- A baby pig; no. No pets. Also... how disturbed should I be by this request?
C'mon, folks. Legible letters with reasonable requests and the season's greetings. Is that too much to ask for? I've got elves pulling double and triple shifts, reindeer who want double feedings even though they know they get too heavy to fly when they eat that way, and a wife who's started referring to herself as a "Christmas widow". Cut me some slack, here.
I swear, we ever get these toys delivered, I am taking that tropical vacation I've been promising myself for the last hundred and seventy-six years.
 This trick works surprisingly well when reading Chaucer, too.