Tis The Season

I am extremely difficult to buy gifts for. I know this, and, honestly, it's partly by design. When people ask me what I want for my birthday or for Christmas I tell them 'I don't really want anything' and I truly don't. I don't need gifts, I don't need any more stuff because I already have too much. But gifts aren't really about the having, they're about the giving. What I really enjoy are gifts that show me someone took some time to think about me. My nieces are particularly good at finding absurd things they know I'll like, but other people have stepped up to the plate as well.
   I prefer to remain an enigma, but this year I've decided not only to make a Christmas list, but to put it out there for everyone to see. Now no one can say I'm hard to buy for.

Dear Santa, please bring me:
   A jet pack - one that fits me and can lift me, I want to sail over castle walls like James Bond.
A posse - anything that's good enough for Tupac is good enough for me.
   A three-finger ring that spells out 'TCB' - if it's good enough for Elvis it's good enough for me.
A Sinatra breakfast - if you don't know what I mean, you aren't meant to. If you do know what I mean, then get busy, daddy-o.
   TCR slotless slot cars - it's the one thing I really, really wanted for Christmas but never got.
Three wishes from a genie in a bottle. And I don't mean Christina Aguilera, what she's got I don't want. An alternative would be a monkey's paw that grants wishes, I'm not all that particular.
   My '72 Chevelle, best car ever. Good luck with this one, I know where the engine is, and it's not with the body. And I'm pretty sure the body's now been recycled into a Weber grill.
The still-beating heart of Bill Gates. I'm not particularly mad at him, not anymore, but he still has a lot to answer for.
   One good, solid punch in Alan Greenspan's face. I know, I know, he's old, but he's got a lot to answer for too. Bastard.
That one day in 1982 when my friends Jeff, Bob, and I were out in Jeff's front yard playing football in the rain. It's all been kind of downhill since then.
   For the guys in charge of Google to come clean and admit they really are in it for the money just like every other corporate bastard. Time for the charade to end.
Leather shoelaces for my f**kin' boots. And not the square ones, those suck, the round ones, like what I have now. But not broken.
   A chance to visit the 18-year-old me, to tell him what he did right and what he did wrong.

There you are, that's all I want. Some of it's gonna be hard to wrap.