“I want a pretty pony!”—Rebecca Jenson, age 8

Merry Christmas, Rebecca! Allow me to give you your present early: The news that you’ll NEVER get a goddamn pony! You live in a fucking city, bed-pisser! Where do you plan on keeping a fucking HORSE? Inside your mother’s studio apartment? Next to your deadbeat dad’s abandoned camper? Besides, Santa only gives ponies to good little girls—not thoughtless little murderers who can’t even keep a hamster alive. (RIP, Cuddles!) —Frank Cassano

“I want a multi-rotor drone, a racing drone, a video drone, a trick drone, a....”—Shane Tulmer, age 14

You’re already INCESSANTLY DRONING, you pubescent shitstain! Trust me, kid, what you need is a girlfriend—which you’ll never get because of all that verbal diarrhea gushing out of your acne-slathered face-hole! Pro tip for your embarrassed, exasperated parents: Take this hormone-dripping fuckwit back where you got him—the Dollar Tree foster home! —Frank Cassano

“All I want is for you to come home for Christmas, dad.”—Chip Cassano, age 33

NICE TRY, SHIT FOR BRAINS! Sure, I’ll come home for Christmas—once you pay me back for that bullshit “creative writing” degree! Say, Chipster, how’s your “great American novel” coming along? Still on chapter ZERO, page ZERO? Since you’re apparently incapable of writing anything, I’ll compose your letter to Santa! “Dear Santa! I’m a huge disappointment! Please bring me some talent and the $150,000 I stole from my father! Signed, a creatively impotent ingrate IMBECILE.” —Frank Cassano