Letter to Santa

This evening I (Joe) walked into what I thought was the scene in a post-apocalyptic movie. Upon further review, it was actually the boys' room. Realizing that Madison spent the week in that room due to being displaced by her visiting great-grandmother, I issued the following: "If you guys can't keep your room clean, Christmas will be cancelled. Santa Claus will skip our house."

It should be noted that I woke at 2:45 this morning (and worked especially late) to deliver my good in-laws to the airport (who, being rather late to the airport, became visibly frustrated as they watched my car sail right past the proper exit . . . and past the proper parking garage . . . and then past the proper terminal--altogether not a great day for impressing said in-laws). Thus, I was in the mood to proclaim over-reactionary orders.

In response to my decree, Madison's tear ducts spouted forth like someone just turned on a sprinkler system. Then, she hurriedly grabbed a quill and parchment to penn Santa a quick report on my dictatorship. It read:

(Translation:)
My Dad is mean. You should put him on the naughty list. He even said that you will have to skip our house. He does not believe in you.

My work here is done.