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Thursday, December 20, 2012

Santa's letters to Charlestown: Dear Lisa

Dear Lisa,

Lisa, Lisa, Lisa…

Uh-oh. I think I dropped the ball these past couple of years.

Here I was, sitting around lamenting the fact that I hadn’t heard from you for months! No wish lists, no post cards, nary a measly email! 

Not even a hip-hop shout-out from the peanut gallery of the silly primetime TV game shows…  L

So I figured you finally outgrew the Santa thing & the playground motif, and moved forward to a cash-rakin’ career in commodities trading, with the goal of returning to Charlestown to buy out the Beck Brothers.

I could see you launching your own business, The Charlestown Mini Superwoman. You could crush the competition with the mother of all concession stands. You could bury Johnny Angels Clam Shack below the mean high water mark, gone without a trace, environmentally deleted forevermore. That’d teach him!

But, no-o-o-o-oo, I find out instead, by sleddin’ the ‘Net, that your give-a-damn got busted, along with your Oldsmobile, by the Blue Meanies, who must have been tipped off by those dastardly Bolshevik Blogspitters!  

Had I known you couldn’t scrape together enough scharole for a prepaid holiday post card, I would’ve sent my top sled dog, Slithhery Dankill Bill, to fetch your wish list in person. But since it’s a little late for that now, I’m just going to throw you three yuletide bones in the hope that I’ll get back on your mailing list.
The first bone is a no-brainer tidbit. You need – and you’re getting - your own personal secretary to field the dozens of emails you receive each day from your constituents. Your new concierge will also have a background in IRS tax regulations governing charitable giving organizations. Then there will indeed be a ray of hope that you file the required documentation at the prescribed intervals, regardless of the local, state, or federal bureaucracy involved. No more Blogspittle for you!

The second bone is a time-tested credential that places you smack-dab in the middle of a trendy demographic melting pot. It worked wonders for Massachusetts Senator-elect Elizabeth Warren, the Harvard professor who tagged herself with the Native American moniker and rode the Beltway bus all the way to DC.

So, effective immediately, your career resume´ has been altered to credit you with 1/32 Native American ancestry, thereby virtually assuring you a seat on all future Charlestown Town Councils.

Of course, I know you never attended Harvard. But you fired someone who did!

The third and final bone is something that you’re really gonna chew on!

You are heretofore appointed host of your own soon-to-be syndicated game show, “Because I Care”, a Drew Carey production that will feature you as Mistress of Ceremonies.

Each week, three contestants who are competing for elective office in select pristine, rural communities across the fruited plain will lay bare their personal philosophies of life and politics.

After you pace them through a comprehensive battery of physical and mental tests, you will instruct a studio audience (actually the Happy Hour crowd at The Cove) to listen as contestants describe tear-evoking, drama-soaked events that changed their lives and spurred them on to pursue careers in local politics.

After a bathroom break, the emotionally drained happy hour devotees will email you their votes indicating the most qualified political behemoth among the hopefuls. Contestants named Ray are, obviously, ineligible to appear on the show.

After checking your smart phone, you will announce the winner and award him or her a piece of asphalt removed from paved driveways of properties located in Critical Resource Areas of town. Hey, it’s better than a lump of coal!

OK now, Lisa.
Santa gotta go.
Too much coffee.

Merry Christmas!