Mr. Kringle deserves this kind of apology

Mr. Kris Kringle
RR 2, Box 29
North Pole, 46-L No. 5
Re: My letter of Dec. 21 last.
Dear Mr. Kringle:
First and foremost, Sir, my sincere and heartfelt apologies. The mien of my expressions in said correspondence concerning your annual visit here was inexcusable, particularly in view of the fact that you have extended your generosity to me well beyond the call of duty in years past.
My juvenile rantings over the fact it has been some 20 years since any appreciable quantity of barnyard fertilizer has been found, figuratively, in my Christmas stocking will, I pray, be accepted by you as merely the expression of a sassy brat. My mother, if she were here, would attest to the accuracy of that description.
What an epiphany you wrought this Christmas! As you know, I was in my nightcap and my assistant was in her kerchief (actually a pair of baggy flannel pajamas) about 9:30 p.m. on Christmas Eve when out on the lawn (actually on our deck and front porch) there arose such a clatter she sprang from the sofa to see what was the matter.
Me, I sat tight under the covers, didn’t even get up. I knew it was some of your elves having their annual sicko hilarity with their firecrackers. Must have been 1,000 or more of them, judging from the duration of the barrage.
Some people told me later the chickens had simply come home to roost. Maybe so, and, Mr. Kringle, I am not complaining. I actually felt flattered. But just one request: Next time have the elves unwrap the bales of crackers before lighting up. I spent several hours cleaning up shredded wrappers.
Anyhow, it was Christmas morning — glorious Christmas morning — before I noticed the three large bags on our driveway. Close (but not too close) inspection verified by olfaction and feel that it was the Real Thing. In fact on my homemade olfactometer the mess measured a full 7.5 out of a possible 10.
I am puzzled, however, about the exact source. Further testing revealed it was not reindeer poop but, in fact, the reading showed possibly small horses or donkeys to be the manufacturers. The size of the few recognizable dollops would seem to indicate such.
The bags were labeled with the name of a business with branches at Como, Dyer and Gleason, or some such place. I could understand Como, as it is close at hand, but the other places?
Then, too, the bags were signed “from the Clifty Santas.” I knew you had an order of elves at Clifty and that some of them own a bunch of little asses that bray and whinny and have bodily functions like all other fauna.
At any rate, Mr. Kringle, the gift is much appreciated — adored even — as any manure-ophile could attest. My plants will be the better for it. In fact, as we speak, much of the organic matter is already ensconced beneath and around the roots of new plants that have gone into the ground since Yule Day.
And to you and yours, dear sir, happy New Year to all and to all a good night.
With best regards,
Your obedient servant,
James P. Williams
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Editor’s note: Jimmy Williams is production superintendent at The Paris Post-Intelligencer, where he also writes this column.
Published in The Messenger 1.15.08

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