Dear Santa,
This year, I think it's finally time that you fulfill my life-long wish, and transform me into a cool-ass little mexican home-bro with a sweet little mustache.
You know what I mean: those tried-and-true motherfuckers that rock worn button-ups and skinny pants (but "cowboy skinny" not "hipster-bitch-panic!-at-the-disco skinny"). And they have a sweet, pencil thin mustache perched atop their mouth, driving their virility status up to somewheres 'round 200, easily trumping the most macho-est lumberjack even while they're just chillin' on the corner, smoking hand-rolled Brazilian cigarettes and sippin' on lukewarm beer from a can.
Come on Santa, don't play me on this; you never got me that Ghostbusters playset when I was 8, and I totally wanted it.
You snow-eating, reindeer-whipping bastard.
Love, Jimmy
P.S.--I once encountered the man below in a stupid-ass bar, and, spitting at the feet of their stupid-ass "rules", I smuggled in a black-top Sparks in my pants and gave it to Spank Rock, and bade him drink from it, and be merry.
P.P.S--The picture above isn't meant as an illustration what I'm talking about, Santa. I just like it. So quit being so literal; Jesus Christ, nobody likes an anal-retentive asshole with eating disorder.
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