Santa Claus Vetoing All Requests for Paris Hilton Video

espite its popularity on Christmas wish lists the world over, Santa Claus called the commune offices this week to announce regretfully that he would not be fulfilling any requests for the Paris Hilton sex video this year.

The video in question features the 22-year-old hotel heiress engaging in several coal-worthy sex acts with then boyfriend Rick Solomon. While readily available for illegal download on the Internet, many had hoped for a handsomely packaged VHS or DVD copy they could proudly display in their movie collection this Christmas, a wish that Claus will be unable to fulfill for multiple reasons.

“Even if I approved of the content, I can’t even get my hands on the thing,� explained Santa. “They don’t offer broadband access at the North Pole, I’m still using this infernal dial-up connection. I can’t even download MP3s of the latest Christmas carols, it’s hopeless. Though from what I hear of today’s music, Santa may not be missing too much on that front, ho ho.�

Off the record, Santa expressed his concerns that hearing some godawful dance hit about Christina Aguilera getting fucked under the Christmas tree might shake his already strained Christmas spirit. Additionally, Claus wished to get the word out on several other hotly anticipated items he won’t be able to cram under Christmas trees this December 25th.

“The Gilligan’s Island DVD—that’s not even out yet. Just because I can breed magical flying livestock doesn’t mean I can time-travel here, kids. Have your parents check the street dates for these things before you send Santa your list next year, please,� the jolly fat man requested.

“Also, I’m not doing color picture phones this year,� Santa apologized. “My distributor in Korea said he could get me the parts but then he hit some kind snag with the displays and let Santa down big time. He can expect a big, dusty hunk of coal in his stocking this year, don’t worry. Though I sincerely doubt he’ll even notice, since most of those Asian countries don’t know Christmas from a crab cake. I stopped going to Singapore last year because everybody thought Santa was some kind of clown and they all wanted me to blow up balloon animals. Not that Santa minds getting a few fortune cookies on Christmas Eve, those can be a nice change of pace that go down surprisingly well with milk.�

Unfortunately, the Orient has not been alone in letting Santa down in recent years.

“Truth be told, some parts of Canada are even questionable these days,� St. Nick griped. “Last year I plopped down a chimney in Winnipeg and half the kids thought I was one of the X-Men, they wouldn’t shut up about wanting to see me extend my claws or shoot fireballs out of my armpits. None of those little children seemed too impressed with the old candy-cane behind-the-ear trick, either. I’m half inclined to skip Canada this year and see how much Christmas cheer their precious Wolverine brings them in my stead, the ungrateful little comic book geeks.�

Santa stresses that while full of good cheer and the Christmas spirit, most of his elves possess a third-grade education at best, and simply do not have the skills necessary to work with complex electronics.

“I thought it was bad back in 2001 when I had to have my elves dig up a bunch of old waffle irons and slap George Foreman decals on them,� Santa explained. “But now it’s just gone completely out of hand. Nobody wants a painted nutcracker anymore. Now it’s all Playstation 2 this and DVD burner that. I’ve had to farm most of my production work out to the Far East, and though small and well-behaved, I doubt those people are what most children envision when they think of Santa’s workforce.�

The resultant layoffs have hit the Christmas elf community hard, leading to rising levels of depression and substance abuse, aided in no small part by the North Pole’s harsh climate and the poor genetic tolerance for alcohol inherent in the Christmas elf population.

Due to rising tech expenses and soft sales of Santa-themed merchandise, Santa’s profit margins are razor-thin this year, children. Nice boys and girls can show their love for Santa by requesting less-demanding toys this Christmas season.

“Who wouldn’t love a little wooden toy train? That’s a classic. Those are pretty cheap to make, and we’ve got tons left over from the elf rehab workshops. Or how about a wooden dolly with a painted face? That’s pretty nice. And blocks. Kids used to have loads of fun with blocks,� Santa said, sighing distractedly.

Claus also wanted to stress with parents the importance of not arming their homes with high-tech burglar alarms and other security systems impervious to Christmas magic.

“Santa Claus doesn’t like to break a window, but he does what he has to do to deliver the magic of Christmas,� warned Santa in a stern tone.

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Honestly, I don't know why you insist upon blaming this whole thing on me. The restraining order, the profile on the local news, that parody song that was a hit for a while. You act as if this was all my doing. I could perhaps understand some clod from the sticks believing that way, one living far removed from the particulars of our situation, gleaning what tiny shred of insight his brain entertains from television newsmagazines and gossip on the Internet. But not you, you're in a position to know better. One could say you're practically bombarded with the truth on a daily basis. Do I even need to speak the words out loud? You made me love you.

I saw you that morning, six short years ago, beating your kids with that big wooden spoon and I knew in that moment you were the woman for me. We weren't alone in that park, you and I, and frankly I'm more than a little surprised I was the only one to fall in love with you that brisk autumn morn. But never you mind, that's the loss of that morning's other parkgoers and strictly my gain. Because I have to think that the voluminous declarations of my love for you might have made somewhat less of an impact if every Tom, Dick and Harry from here to the North Sea were bombarding your home with telephone calls and paper airplanes inscripted with amorous verse on a daily basis. And as for your protestations, the tender barkings of a heart not ready to be so loved, so completely fulfilled… I have to imagine they'd have meant slightly less to me had those sentiments been mailed out in triplicate or, I shudder to think, via a mass email.

No, that morning was made for you, and I. And Jordan, who had just urinated into a bird feeder and was in that moment tasting the heavenly sting of your tough love. And who could forget Darla, who was giggling angelically with glee at her brother's bittersweet lament? Nor Dulcie or Marzipan, the twins, or little Marcel, your beautiful deaf son. But of course this is not forgetting sweet Rocko, he of the impish grin and robustly shit diapers, him I could never forget. And last but not least, little Balfor, the apple of his mother's beautifully enraged eye, gurgling musically as his mother lit into Jordan with an ass-beating fury that could not be tamed by any nearby joggers or the local constable. Yes, that morning was made for you, and I, and your seven children alone.

After I got to know you, through quizzing your neighbors and tracking down your high school classmates, my love for you grew like a berserk vine rooted in radioactive solution, yearning skyward and flattening any obstacle in its path. I came to understand the quality of your love, its potency and the reason why it could not be hoarded by any one man, hence your seven children and their eight different fathers. I loved you from afar, and at times from really afar with a pair of high-powered binoculars, and all the while my love vine grew and grew.

I loved you from the mountaintop and I loved you from the jail cell, biding my time and cursing the security system your ex-husband had installed at the house. But even that love-defying tuna net of a barrier could not quell my thunderously beating heart, nay.

Sometimes I wondered how you could not see the trueness of my aim nor the volcanic throbbing of my virtue and dedication to you. But when we went on Jenny Jones together and you talked about losing your virginity to your high school gym teacher it all became clear to me. You were not ready.

Even a creature of such angelic beauty, one so able to turn on the world with her smile and open a beer bottle with her teeth, can grow weary of drawing sustenance from a poisoned well and close her petals to the sun's balmy glow. This I understand, my love, and I will wait for the day when your flower again blooms, like one of those paper fortune-telling things the kids used to use where you pick a color and a number and then when you open the flap it says you're a gaylord. For if my crime is the ability to see clearly too far into the distant future, to that island of bliss in a sea of not-yetness where we exist together, then slap on the handcuffs and book me in the jail of your love, my dear.

For in this matter, not even the Gods can order my restraint!

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Dear commune:

Just a thought, but it strikes me that commune readers never really got to hear how the commune and its staff were affected by the 9/11 attacks. Since your offices are located in NYC, it must have had some kind of impact, right? Surely you have some heart-warming, Oprah-like stories of adversity overcome and heroism in the face of terror, right? Do tell!

Norah Sierra
Albuquerque, NM


Dear Norah:

Thankfully for the sake of our non-shattered spleens, the commune offices are actually located in "New York" in name only. We do have a NYC postmark, but in fact, we’re so far out in the urban sticks we get a New Jersey phonebook, which is a pain in the ass because Jersey has no good Thai food. It’s like living among the islanders or something; we half expect to get a pig’s head in a box when we order take-out. However, don’t let this fact fool you into thinking we weren’t effected by the terrorist attacks, as none of our favorite soap operas or game shows aired at all that day. And it’s like the man said, once we can’t watch some overweight Midwestern housewife spin some huge novelty wheel to win a case of AAA batteries, the terrorists have already won. A truly sad day. Thanks for your letter.

the commune

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Dear commune:

Quick, settle a bet between my wife and I. If something is really great, do you say its "the bee’s knees" or "the beef’s nuts"? Stupid bitch actually thinks bees have knees!

Ron Lanteri
Deer Entry, NY


Dear Ron:

Actually, either is acceptable in casual conversation. However in the future, after your wife divorces you, remember that saying a girl looks like "the beef’s nuts" is unlikely to get her into your car. Knock ’em dead, tiger.

the commune

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Dear commune:

How come the commune never runs multiple letters in the Letters to the Editor section anymore? It used to be you could count on at least three letters per issue, sometimes more if I hadn’t read the previous week’s issue before. But now it’s only one, one stinking rotten lousy stupid letter per stinking rotten lousy stupid issue. I can only imagine it leads to even fewer voices that need hearing being heard. And that’s the problem with America these days, when only the "official" word gets out, from "official" news stories to "official" letters to the editor. I was really looking forward to reading future chapters of the Hobobeater’s manifesto, for example, but did they run? No they didn’t, and all so some primadonna could bitch about Donettes. Now how am I supposed to carry out my copycat beatings of destitute rodeo clowns? Thanks a lot commune, screw you and your big yellow bird mascot.

p.s. I won’t go to jail, I’m insainnocent!

Schekyl Bombase
Tulaine, OR


Dear Schekyl:

Thanks for your letter, but we’re afraid we here at the commune don’t know what you’re on about. We’ve been running this feature in the three-letter format for years now, and proudly so. And any suggestion to the contrary might raise a stink and cost us our jobs, get it? So itquay the Tonupay Inclairsay ullshitbay, kayoay?

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for the collapse of your campaign for the California governorship. After a long, hard look in the mirror we think you’ll realize you only have yourself, and various members of the cast of Predator, to blame.

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