Dear Jessica,

Times are tough this year, kiddo. And I hate to break it to you, but people like your father are some of the primary culprits. They gazed upon the healthy figure of a thriving economy, noticed they only had one mansion, and smelled blood. They ran the beast down and sank their golden teeth into its jugular veins, lapping at the gushing life blood like kittens with a saucer of milk.

Then, as the beast lay dying, your father and his kind handed everyone they knew silver spoons to feast upon its steaming remains. The crowd grew fat and happy, filled to the tops of their necks with fresh meat. But what about everyone else? How will they eat now that the beast is dead?

“Who cares?” they all chuckled as the meat began to rot.

That’s why, Jessica, I’ll be leaving the upper class executives and their families to fend for themselves this year. My elves haven’t produced a single toy for anyone in that tax bracket.

“But, how will everyone get presents this year?” they’ll ask.

Who cares, I say
Santa