Lisa,
Lisa, Lisa…
Uh-oh.
I think I dropped the ball these past couple of years.
Here I was, sitting
around lamenting the fact that I hadn’t heard from you for months! No wish
lists, no post cards, nary a measly email!
Not even a hip-hop shout-out from the
peanut gallery of the silly primetime TV game shows… L
So I
figured you finally outgrew the Santa thing & the playground motif, and
moved forward to a cash-rakin’ career in commodities trading, with the goal of returning
to Charlestown to buy out the Beck Brothers.
I could
see you launching your own business, The Charlestown Mini Superwoman. You could
crush the competition with the mother of all concession stands. You could bury
Johnny Angels Clam Shack below the mean high water mark, gone without a trace,
environmentally deleted forevermore. That’d teach him!
But,
no-o-o-o-oo, I find out instead, by sleddin’ the ‘Net, that your give-a-damn
got busted, along with your Oldsmobile, by the Blue Meanies, who must have been
tipped off by those dastardly Bolshevik Blogspitters!
Had I
known you couldn’t scrape together enough scharole for a prepaid holiday post
card, I would’ve sent my top sled dog, Slithhery Dankill Bill, to fetch your wish
list in person. But since it’s a little late for that now, I’m just going to
throw you three yuletide bones in the hope that I’ll get back on your mailing
list.
The
first bone is a no-brainer tidbit. You need – and you’re getting - your own
personal secretary to field the dozens of emails you receive each day from your
constituents. Your new concierge will also have a background in IRS tax regulations
governing charitable giving organizations. Then there will indeed be a ray of
hope that you file the required documentation at the prescribed intervals,
regardless of the local, state, or federal bureaucracy involved. No more
Blogspittle for you!
The
second bone is a time-tested credential that places you smack-dab in the middle
of a trendy demographic melting pot. It worked wonders for Massachusetts
Senator-elect Elizabeth Warren, the Harvard professor who tagged herself with
the Native American moniker and rode the Beltway bus all the way to DC.
So,
effective immediately, your career resume´ has been altered to credit you with
1/32 Native American ancestry, thereby virtually assuring you a seat on all future
Charlestown Town Councils.
Of
course, I know you never attended Harvard. But you fired someone who did!
The
third and final bone is something that you’re really gonna chew on!
You are
heretofore appointed host of your own soon-to-be syndicated game show, “Because
I Care”, a Drew Carey production that will feature you as Mistress of
Ceremonies.
Each
week, three contestants who are competing for elective office in select
pristine, rural communities across the fruited plain will lay bare their personal
philosophies of life and politics.
After
you pace them through a comprehensive battery of physical and mental tests, you
will instruct a studio audience (actually the Happy Hour crowd at The Cove) to listen
as contestants describe tear-evoking, drama-soaked events that changed their
lives and spurred them on to pursue careers in local politics.
After a
bathroom break, the emotionally drained happy hour devotees will email you
their votes indicating the most qualified political behemoth among the
hopefuls. Contestants named Ray are, obviously, ineligible to appear on the
show.
After
checking your smart phone, you will announce the winner and award him or her a
piece of asphalt removed from paved driveways of properties located in Critical
Resource Areas of town. Hey, it’s better than a lump of coal!
OK now,
Lisa.
Santa
gotta go.
Too
much coffee.
Ho-ho-ho!
Merry
Christmas!
