Even as children we had a feeling Santa couldn't get us everything we wanted. So every year we endured possible chubbies in the laps of somewhat creepy bearded mall men to profess our innocence over the last year and request only the things we wanted which were most viable, depending on the in-stock availability of our requests, and our parent's household income. If you were a little girl, and you asked for an ACTUAL pony, not a My Little Pony, you had to know you were just blowing off steam in Santa's ear (often considered an erogenous zone). So that's why we at PIC first gathered in 2005 to send the message: "Hey, we know what we REALLY want and we're not going to get it. Fuck you, Santa."
Here are the things we won't get for Christmas this year.
Sexual intercourse on a regular basis, Britney and Justin to finally get back together, my own daytime talk show in which I can finally fulfill my life-long dream of revealing paternity test results live on stage, the chance to go back in time and star as Frances "Baby" Houseman in the 1987 American romantic film Dirty Dancing, a waffle maker in the shape of John Ritter's face, the ability to fly, and a never-ending supply of Kit Kat bars.
Hover board, Laser boots, iPhone 9, season 12 of Boardwalk Empire on LaserDiamondMega Disc, tickets to the White House Correspondence Dinner honoring President Skrillex.
The all-inclusive "72-Virgin Terrorist Orgy Experience" in Syria, a clean drug test, Ashley Garmany.
I did not ask for anything for Christmas but I'm not getting that. It's OK, though. I'm not getting these things either: Snake Detector, Ghost Dad 2, not being called "guy" "boss" or "bro" by other guys, Michael Caine Phone Sex Scandal, Two and a Half Men pogs, more Angry Birds merchandise.
Workman's comp for that week I was immobilized due to consuming a KFC Double Down while on the job, episode 3 of The Paul Reiser Show, a flag that says "God Hates Flags," justice for OJ Simpson by tracking down and capturing the elusive criminal mastermind who shamelessly framed OJ for brutally murdering Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman, episode 4 of The Paul Reiser Show, the Presto Fry Daddy Deep Fryer and The DR Field and Brush Mower (sure, it'd be fun to fry some meats and mow some lawns, but I just don't think anyone's gonna buy them for me), episode 5 of The Paul Reiser Show, another thing on the list of "Things I Won't Get For Christmas." Anyway, be sure to remember the real reason for the season: the birth of baby Regis. Is this where you want to be when Regis comes back?
Syphilis (not this time), anal warts (already got those), condoms.
I want a goddamn pony. Literally. Like a demon pony from hell with bat wings and fire-breathing capability and superpowers and eyes that glow red with hate and fierce Christmas spirit. Also friends and a social life. Except not, because that would cut into my gaming time. I hate my life.
Robert Pattinson's phone number/email/genetic sample (restraining order is in the mail though), Santa's list of naughty guys, antivenom for [insert any Australian animal here], a "Mrs. Lautner" t-shirt, Death's Head Moth colony starter kit and sewing machine, an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle.
The damn post office and their looming "bankruptcy" denied my request for bacon-flavored stamp and envelope sealing glue. Oh and my idea for "Santa's Lap" scented Febreze got nixed as well. I guess there's always next year.
Colorblindness to stem the racism, a Spam-flavored Confederate Candle, regional peace, world quiet, and a Molest Me Elmo.
The taste buds to appreciate instant curry, a talking pirate monkey with a French Canadian accent who is only slightly worse at Scrabble than I am, and maybe a cool watch with lots of gadgets.
Those new Casey Anthony Child-Proof Garbage Bags, an Amanda Knox chastity ring, the new Apple drug iCure.
A party ready Personal Penguin (because of legality and shipping/handling logistics), a stink bug/cave cricket neutron bomb, a slow moving sexually hypnotic female ninja, and support from the American Medical Association for the "Randomized, Double-Blind, Placebo-Controlled, Multi-Tiered, Reverse-Roofie, Viagra Fuck Test." Oh and World Peace, because of the birth of Jesus.
My balls sucked with the requisite level of expertise! A compliment on the size of my dick! A Pulitzer Prize for literature! A spiritual connection with one of my clients! A gift certificate for a penile reduction! Appreciation for all the work I've done for my clients over the last year! A free session with anybody—not even a tranny! An invitation to the Village Voice Christmas party (God forbid! I've been paying their salaries for years!) A ticket for an NFL playoff game with a New York team competing! A good orgasm, unless it's self-induced!
The droids I'm looking for, a Royal with cheese, eight maids a milking my prostate, visitation with my children, MacArthur fellowship, A Night at the Roxbury on Blu-Ray, validation or respect from my coworkers/management, a dead Flanders, five consecutive hours without distraction or the burden of exhaustion to write a fucking article.
A Samsung Galaxy S II (which means this girl I'm stalking won't be getting tons of sext), a box of chocolates, a vintage copy of Legally Blonde on DVD to go along with my sex change, a sex change, a card from my dad that screams "I Still Love You," tons of tang, loads of wang, Kathy Griffin waiting at my door step to give me a high five, better spelling skills so I can finally spell hanuka right, a "Comedy Central Presents" special, a comment on my Funny or Die articles (but I'll assume it's just because they're so good they leave people speechless), more stal- followers on Twitter, more friends on Facebook, a trip to an Upright Citizens Brigade theatre to take a class, a less healthy libido, an email from CollegeHumor saying "Oprah forced us to one of your pieces of shit on our website," and a partridge in a pear tree.
A blumpkin from Kim Jong Il. I've run the numbers, and it just seems especially unlikely.
The green light on that script I spent half of last year writing entitled Calvin and Hobbes: The Noodle Incident, signed memorabilia from Brooks and Dunn (because I don't want it), an attorney (I don't want to bore you with details), a judge who takes bribes, an officer who takes bribes, the county jailor who does take bribes but gross because not that kind, posting bond in enough time to wake up under my parents' Christmas tree.
Santa won't be getting me a pill-head zombie protection kit or Tommy Chong's million dollar bong.
-An IHOP Man Din Go! brand limited holiday edition "back massager" wrapped in country ham, bacon, maple syrup, and sprinkled with powdered sugar. It's the perfect All-American gift for the single girl who's getting on in life… or off. (No stealing my gift fictional character Liz Lemon. I'm not above shanking a bitch.)
-A magic wand to erase those last 10 pounds… or the first 30… or the in between 20. The perfect companion for the Man Din Go!
-A man who doesn't cheat, fart, belch, scratch his ass, or skid mark his tighty whities… or wear tighty whities in general. Maybe that would be a chick… but not one with a vagina. That just won't work. How about a gay man struggling to go back into the closet? Yeah… I want a gay man with a secret desire for the Vag Box.
-A Vag Box paved in gold, diamonds, and virgin Indian hair imported directly from China. The perfect thing to go along with those bedazzled condoms! (Editor's note: All PIC writers received a year's supply of bedazzled condoms. Or a day's, depending whether you have sex more than once a year.)
I already have Buttsluts Slurpies 17 and Season 2 of Curb Your Enthusiasm, so I will want for nothing this Christmas. If my friends were real friends they would get me a PS3 instead of bitching about my PS2.
The long-awaited 7-volume book set "Making Advanced Calculus Work for You: Differential Equations, Derivatives, Graphing Slopes…and Everything Else You Wanted to Know About Advanced Mathematics But Were Too Afraid to Ask."
This Christmas is going to be a different kind of Christmas for me. See, my sister had a kid; an adorable little girl. And this is her first year where she is conscious enough to understand what's going on. So its allllllll about her this year. "Santa" is coming this year and the kid will see (if she could even read) her name on eeeeeeevery gift. What about me, huh? I may have been bad all year but I deserve a pile of gifts under the tree, right? This is America goddamnit! I should be swimming in the presents! But no. I don't have a "real" job. I "owe people money." I blew all said money on girls that eventually figured me out and took-a-tha-fuck-off-a. So there will be no Christmas for me this year in the traditional sense. But if there was, I would love the elves to have delivered:
-Single XL shirts (a boy can dream to rid himself of "X" numero 2, right?)
-Size 36 pants (another pipe dream)
-The ability to not rant when asked for a simple "What You Won't Get for Christmas" list
Batman Crazy Foam (a bubble bath that vomited out of a Batman head, apparently lost to time), Super Elastic bubble plastic (inflatable plastic-making cylinders that Wham-O took off the market because they "killed people"—the jerks), Metlar: The King of the Inhumanoids (an outsized 1980's action figure that proved unpopular with parents because it was supposed to be Satan).
A version of Modern Warfare in which I can surprise attack a Civil War re-enactment, a 36-sided dreidel like all my Jewish Dungeon Master friends, a girl who believes I'm a stand-in for the show Hung, Red Bull-flavored Rogaine, a rescue manatee, Peace on Earth and a sack full of 20's (package deal).
A monkey, a boob massage from Jessica Alba, a job that pays me to play video games in my underwear, a cure to… um… war or some shit?, a visit from Robocop, to discover that my dad has secretly been Batman all along, a police phone box that travels through time and space, some sort of giant transforming robot, for the Predator to make it his mission to hunt down all my ex-girlfriends in a brutally efficient manner, bedazzled condoms (wait a minute…).
Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and a Firey Apocalypse from all your comedy servants at PIC!
P.S. Tell us what you want for Christmas but won't get in the comments…