Upsetting Day: Dogs Letters to Santa

I keep it light. Who needs more stress in their inbox? Tuesdays are for relatable topics, like the wyrd eye floating above mankind, coaxing our fall.

I know you see it. I’m not insane. We’re insane.

Still, there’s evil I can’t ignore. Attacks on human dignity. Insults to life itself.

Like this table book of pet jokes. I wish I could shred it twice.

Figuratively.

Fuck.

Last round, I noted that Bill Adler shares a name with a better writer. Fun fact: he also made real books for nose-breathers.

Among others.

The intro’s existence is an insult. Picture someone that can’t grok Dogs Letters to Santa. You can’t. Your ego’s lying to you. The dumbest child/memecoin victim/scarecrow/Times columnist you know gets it. I’d cut my opening, but I have to brace my psyche.

It didn’t work. We’re down to “violets are blue” on page 49 of 104. That’s stillbirth for words, until you add Christmas. Then it’s holiday stillbirth. Also: 104 pages. The Grinch stole Christmas and punked out in 64, fully illustrated. Though the pet cult makes…attempts.

Paired with letters like this:

Adler shouldn’t throw stones: Ray would get to the joke faster. If it existed.

I dig pets. People charge thousands to chase targets or hide bones, while dogs do both for free. Handy. Somehow, those savings drive owners mad. They become brain-only werewolves. If your dog had a Halloween costume, avoid silver.

Adler & Accomplices capitalize.

We can’t pin the stilted voice on Sam Altman, this is from 2006. Actually, scratch that. Blame Altman for anything, he’s earned it. Dead crops, cystic acne, sitting ghosts, soulless leaders, species-wide creative rot, gentle feedback from angry patients, and shitty dog puns are all Altman. Brainstorm your revenge. Don’t ask an autoplagiarist, they’re trained on Andrew Ryan speeches.

The gag never evolves: dogs don’t talk, Santa doesn’t exist, and Adler doesn’t respect you. If none of those insights spark joy, use this book for heat. Or, if you’re more ambitious, to erase memories. For more sunshine in your spotless mind, simply damage it with puppercult glurge. Its literary chemotherapy.

For example, spike your brain against this:

See? I’ve already forgotten my last split. Love bombing just sounds like a Sanrio drone. As for the question: all dogs do, but some editors don’t.

Good news: this is today’s best joke. Because it's a joke. Yes, it sounds like born-again Garfield. Yes, it’s worse than most of the non-jokes. But a crumb trail of thought leads to “all cats are in hell.” Which is biblical fact: cats burn. Whiskers fry forever in the pit. The rule’s buried in one of those slow verses that don’t ruin sex or help slaves whistle while they work. Don’t feel too bad: this way, I’ll have a cat.

Truly written to last. Zombie Futurama keeps an Emeril parody around, which should inspire you. Stale comedy offers immortality. You’re only dead after hacks stop saying your name.

To the contributor: no dog should go hungry, and you seem responsible. As an emergency food supply, consider yourself. Your body has all the nutrients a hound needs to grow strong. And rich flavor.

That letter killed AP History. Now I feel pretty good about rival alliances of hungry imperial powers. And nostalgic strongmen replacing boring book-readers. I wonder where they lead.

Dope.

Shame there’s only one dog chef joke no there isn’t hit me. Hard. Do it. Don’t cop out like Batman. Send me back to the earth.

Hmm, still here. Thanks for nothing, Julia (the dog).

Maybe I’ve repressed an Air Bud cooking spinoff, and this joke merely sucks instead of hurts. Maybe commerce justifies any disgrace, and standards hold us back. As things stand, I hope your dog eats you.

Julia (the dog)’s erased my memory of…of…I don’t know. Did anything rough happen last month? Maybe this book isn’t so bad. If I keep going, I can leave my trashcan life behind.

What fun! Trump’s a deep cut, but I see the appeal. I’d also like a 2006 The Apprentice cameo for publishable reasons.

This joke must be okay. Now I just can’t recall something about the weather. Maybe I’ll look that up after browsing Land Rovers. They look fun, and if I take the muffler out everyone’ll know who’s in charge.

Poor Peppy. One good trick is eating your owner. I used to be bilingual, but thanks to Peppy I only speak Freedom.

Overall, this far outsucks the cat book, which at least reached for failed punchlines. Dogs’ Letters to Santa is much more zen about humor, and mostly content to chill in the void. Which is why enlightenment sucks. The lists of Buddhas and people that starved in the forest are one.

Adorable! As long as we’re repeating ourselves: I hope your dog eats you.

To clarify: I don’t assume dogs eat their owners often. That wouldn’t earn a minute of Oprah’s airtime. I want the rare tragedy of your dog eating you on Christmas. An exit worthy of weeks of daytime TV. Start writing a book about it now, before your dog eats you.

I don’t remember that name. He sounds like Santa.

The writers/talking dogs/children/pet parents/Bill prefer TV, which almost explains failing in print. But TV still has ideas. The keys they jangle before audiences exist. What are fans of paws, tinsels, or words meant to find here? This is a gift you hide divorce papers in.

Dog jokes! Big market. If Burryman writes two, he’ll lap Bill’s brain trust. Not to imply dogs write better; it’s kinder to say it outright. Dogs would write, edit, and draw better. The first Morse code-tapping poodle to escape Columbia’s basement will change the game.

Columbia looks like a plum gig. I could probably get through a student purge without saying something blacklisty. Repeatedly. On multiple outlets. If I have a mind after Dogs’ Letters to Santa, I’ll throw my resume on the pile.

Does everyone need fingers?

They’re a big responsibility. If you’re just stroking out Oprah worship or detective novels about being cancelled, give them to someone with more vision. Like your dog. Add gravy and they’ll be gone before you’ve dictated Parrots’ Letters to Santa.

Forgive me if that’s a real, beloved classic. I lost high school reading Moose’s letter. Don’t worry, I’ll just relearn the canon in Linda McMahon’s Bookslam! A Literary Bodybuilding Experience. Tybalt X is defending the title against Mercutio Jr., while R. Slaypussy referees. Tybalt’s probably winning, they like long heel reigns.

Half of male life is burying the demon you’re raised to be. I’m not all the way there, because while I wouldn’t bother my dog for fighting a cat (hacky, but forgivable), losing ends at the shelter. Picking fights you can’t win is for Young Money alumni.

This one’s illustrated:

Not bad. I feel nothing, but that’s a preexisting condition. Buying Christmas books doesn’t entitle me to mirth. Besides, Goliath here could be an old Pixar sight gag or new Pixar lead. Things are looking up–visually. The words are degenerating:

Cruise has some hammers. I’m fond of when aliens tore him apart on loop. Nothing kept him going but a thin chance of glory and standing near Emily Blunt. Relatable. I don’t know how many jokebook rage-strokes it’ll take, but I’ll walk the path. Even if it ends in the forest.

Have the wasted fingers behind this held a dog? Or anything besides a remote? After Cats’ Letters to Santa, I had no hope of follow through on Christmas. But I expected consistent dog worship. After forgetting every aircraft carrier landing, I wanted more from American minds.

There we go. It matters, just a little, that a dog’s writing and Santa’s reading. Every word sucks. Tightly. Efficiently. Evocatively. The “Stan” of failure.

It has a twin! A longer, duller twin. “Talk more about dogs” is the worst advice I’ve given. A teacher would fall on their sword. Though only weebs and lunatics own swords.

This fucking…does that thing. Like a vacuum cleaner, or whirlpool. Or black hole, Millar dialogue, national soul, healthcare pit, or mid-Pacific plastic nexus. This intakes. But why? Another letter might have an answer, or at least erase my father.

We all know who I think Janet should eat. And that Adler’s computer jokes intake as badly as his celebrity jokes. Let’s focus on the question at hand, before I lose typing.

Christ. That’s straight from the cat book. I’ll have to dictate the finish.

The biggest problem behind the laziness, lack of talent, thin holiday sheen, dog fixation, stale jokes, repeated jokes, creative death, shallow reference pool, celebrity worship, shitty font, quarter-assed illustration, naked greed, and subtle disdain for dog-kind: the wonky voice. Adler’s minions aim for dry and cutesy at the same time, and those go together like survival and being eaten by their dogs. It doesn’t compute. Let the hounds feast. Commit to either baby talk, contempt for the premise, or a special meal for Sparky.

Absolutely. Mocking fluff’s like hunting mice with a grenade gun: ideal. The best way to ensure nothing’s left. What each child of Parker and Juvenal should aspire to. The mind is a blade, and novelty publishing is an unarmed peasant. Follow the samurai way.

I’ve gone sane. Everything weak has been erased with dog. I’m finally ready for the new world.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Max Baroi, who only signed up because we promised a dog would eat someone.

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