Santa's letter to Lisa DiBello

Dear Lisa,

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 show. 

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. Or maybe you’ll get some seed money by finally settling your lawsuit against the Town that’s be sitting there in Superior Court.

I could see you launching your own business, The Charlestown Mini Superwoman. You could crush the competition with the mother of all concession stands, maybe with a little bingo on the side just for spice. 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 of the CPD, who must have been tipped off by those dastardly Bolshevik Blogspitters! Guess your Mega-Millions tickets didn't hit.

Had I known you couldn’t scrape together enough scharole for a prepaid holiday post card, I would’ve sent my top sled dog, Chiclets, to fetch your wish list in person. But since it’s a little late for that now, I’m just going to throw you the mother of all yuletide bones in the hope that I’ll get back on your mailing list.

You know Lisa, I’m hearing you’ve actually been a very good girl this year, making a real big-girl effort to be super-nice so that when that fired town administrator gets into a position of power, he doesn’t sic the feds on your charity foundation for IRS irregularities that could cure the constipation of a herd of compacted dairy cows.

No bull, Lisa, I’m taking a huge leap here by having my elves hack into the Land Evidence Records database. Mums the word, girl!

Come 12:00 AM, December 26, you- and only you -will hold the deed to Ninigret Park in perpetuity, even when the Narragansett Indian Tribe eventually regains control of the remainder of the 59.3 square miles of land and water mass that we’ve been squatting on for a few hundred years or so.

But wait! There’s more! You will also own parking and concession rights at the Charlestown Moraine Preserve just across the road. What better way to prevent future Democrats from building a nuclear power plant there than to pave it over!

The Federal Government will also pay you $50,000 per year  from the sale of merchandise and food items at the Kettle Pond Visitor Center.

I’m not sure why I’m doing this, Lisa, but ever since I spent the night on that infernal moraine you guys are whining about, I’ve had an antler up my keister.

Butt it only hurts when I laugh!

OK now, Lisa.

Santa gotta go.

Too much coffee.

Ho-ho-ho!

Merry Christmas!