In September 1897, Virginia O’Hanlon wrote the following letter:
Dear Editor,
I am 8 years old. Some of my friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see in the Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O’Hanlon
Stan Lee, Marvel Editor-In-Chief and blowhard 1975.
In 1975, the letter found it’s way to Stan Lee, the editor of Marvel Comics.
He could have led a more extravagant life if he really wanted to, but Mr. Potter was a miser through and through. His motto was simple: in order to retain wealth, one must retain wealth. You keep it, you horde it, because you never know what will come along. Finally, that opportunity of a lifetime came along. After months of nickel and dime-ing with shady Nazi businessmen, Mr. Potter acquired a pill that would allow him to live forever.
Santa’s bungalow was warm and cozy. By warm, it was loud and obnoxious from Santa’s thunderous snore. By cozy, it reeked to high heaven. Stink lines exuded from every possible orifice of St. Nick sleeping hard on the recliner. Surrounding the chair, three empty bottles of Wild Turkey, a fourth bottle one-third full clenched in his hand, resting on his enormous belly.
A blue miniature guitar made and purchased in Mexico. It was the size of a ukulele from Hawaii. I must confess; I was greatly underwhelmed. After five golden rings and twelve drummers drumming, this was, putting it mildly, a gyp.
I didn’t even know the 13th day of Christmas was a thing, but, apparently, it is.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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