I’m not going to mince words here. As I understand it, you’re pretty much omniscient. I can’t bullshit you like an innocent 5 year old, tell you I’ve been good all year, or even tried to be good all year.
You saw. You know.
But then, I have an inkling this goes both ways. You’re a man in complete and utter control of many, many little men (elves, if you will). I don’t know exactly what kind of kinky S&M relationship you have with them, if their plastered-on smiles belie a darker truth. I just can’t see these little dudes willingly indenturing themselves, without some unseemly shit going down off camera.
So let’s talk turkey.
I have enough slippers/coffee mugs/mittens/pen sets/seasons of The Gilmore Girls on DVD.
This year, I want something good. GOOD.
Last week, to quote the esteemed Lionel Richie, “I had a dream, an awesome dream.”
A dream from which I did not want to wake.
I dreamt I had a gay boyfriend.
I used to have one, in real life. That perfect specimen; cute, polite, hilarious, flirty, immaculate, flattering, and not one bit interested in my girly parts.
Heaven, in a pair of expensive jeans. He left me for law school. I’ve never found a suitable replacement.
The dream brought it all back. Realizing it had been a dream, not real? I was disappointed for the better part of a Saturday.
So that’s what I’m asking for, Santa. A gay boyfriend. (Don’t worry, my husband’s totally down with it. Gets him out of theatre productions and, you know, talking about feelings and junk.) I’ll expect him to be lounging under the tree on December 25.
Anticipating your cooperation in this matter,
P.S. Don’t try to pull a fast one. Because funny or not, if you bring me a Bruce Vilanch
the jig is up with your snowy little sweatshop.
We’re talking Neil Patrick Harris or better.