Year after year, you come groveling to me, whining for presents. You even bring lists and expect to sit in my lap. How greedy. How selfish. The time has come to turn the tables. Going forward, you will be serving Santa. I will wake up with piles of materialistic goods hand-delivered to my home. You can spend Christmas Eve out in the cold, scouring gifts for me, shivering as you haul everything through the winter night. It's my turn to lay in bed, warm and cozy, knowing I'm going to get everything I want this holiday season. You work for me now. It's your job to spoil Santa. You have all of December to check everything off my wishlist. You find yourself excited at the prospect. You WANT to hand everything over to me. I deserve it.