The Clause

Dear Miss Katy,

How are you on this beautiful December morning? I am fine and I sure hope that you are fine.

My name is Billy Little and I live in Boston. It’s a real nice town. I am eight years old, and my dad is named Billy too. Plus he's older. So I bet you can guess what they call me. That’s right, Little Billy Little. It’s a funny name and I like it a lot, but I think when I get older I’ll just use William. Or Percy, which is my middle name.

I have a question and my mother told me go ask Katy, so here I am. Did I tell you that I’m real smart? Smart as a whip, they tell me. I think I just used a subordinate clause there, which is smart indeed. They let me skip a grade and I can already do long division. Pretty impressive, huh.

It’s funny that we were just talking about subordinate clauses, because my question is about another Clause. Santa Clause. Did you know that in some parts of the world they call him Kris Kringle? Do you know what I call him? Phony Baloney. I hate Santa Clause because he is so stupid unintelligent. There is no way a big fat man can get down a chimney.

Yet, perhaps I am wrong. My little friends tell me, “Little Billy Little, Santa anint going to come to some one who disez him.” Sorry, I am incapable of spelling anint or disez, because they are not in my vocabulary book. Did I say that I was home schooled? Because my home is smart.

So what if there was a Santa Clause? Would I then be dumber than my little friends who can’t even tell you the capitol of Zanzibar? Because then I would be the stupidest little boy of all. Which I’m not. I don’t think. Well, I do think, but I don’t think that I am the stupidest little boy of all.

What do you think, Miss Katy? Huh?

Little Billy Little.

Oh, I am sorry. Thank you very much.

---

Dear Future Percy,

One of 'Miss Katy's' natural gifts is the ability to read between the big ole fat crayola lines, honey and get straight to your confused by home-schooling point.

Sometimes someone says one thing but means another.

Or they say something one way, accidentally wrong, but it turns out to be actually RIGHT. A Freudian slip, that's what they call it, Willy, and it's why your anus bleeds every Christmas.

When you say 'There is no way a big fat man can get down a chimney,' Miss Katy doesn't have to be an ass biologist to figure out what you're really worried about.

Your parents are letting poor out of work Uncle Pete stay with you again, aren't they Billy? Just like last Christmas. It's their 'Christian Duty', right?

"Be Mommy's Good Boy and let Uncle Petey stay in your top bunk, just for Jesus's Birthday"

Fat stinky Pete has all his stuff in two little plastic grocery bags, and his pants. When mommy and daddy leave the room, he says,

'Come on and sit on yer ole Uncle Petey's lap. I got somethin' for ya in one of my pockets, go on and see if you can fish around and find it."

Uncle Pete is daddy's big brother. You had a big brother but he died. He is with Jesus now. Up in the sky... Uncle Pete smells like pee and wine vomit. Jesus gets all the good stuff: you get Pee and wine vomit.

Your little chimney aches just thinking about it...

Does this add up? Is it worth it?

'Santa Claus' is defined as 'a plump white bearded and red-suited old man in modern folklore who delivers presents to good children at Christmas time'. A 'Clause' is a stipulation, or proviso, in a legal document. From the French 'claudere' to shut, to end.

Your 'Santa Clause' is, therefore, real enough in his shit-stained red velour track suit. He is intent on delivering your 'package'.

You'll be ready this time. Christmas scissors, with the Jesus handles and crucifix snips.

You used to be a good little boy.

But not any more.

No one gives a shit about Zanzibar.

Tis the Reason for the Season, sweetie,

Katy