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I've always felt that it is necessary to report the news to you, no matter how mundane. With these new editorials (under the unassuming name of "Staff Rants"), I finally can.
It was Christmas 2006. I had lain awake all night, waiting for Santa Claus (my parents used to tell me that he wouldn't go to our house if I was awake, but I never believed them). Finally, around two o'clock in the morning, I heard what I had been waiting for my whole life. Sleigh bells ringing? Reindeer neighing? A fat, jolly man ho-ho-hoing?
I rushed downstairs in my pajamas, lighting up the Christmas tree on the way. Illuminated in the soft glow of the lights was a plate with some half-eaten cookies, a glass of half-drunk milk, and a small, modest box covered in wrapping paper.
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I ripped open the wrapping paper, and there, laid in my living room,
was a Playstation 3 box. A PS3. Santa had finally come through, and I
had trusted him all the way, even though there was that one year where
I asked for an N64 and some other kid had gotten it instead and became
an Internet phenomenon.
Needless to say, I opened the box, innocently expecting a tangle of A/V
cords and a gleaming new station for play. Instead, a solitary note
fell out. On it were written three heart-breaking letters.
I.
O.
U.
Thank you, Santa. I'm sure I'll be able to cash that one in at the
local game shop. I've learned my lesson. From now on, the only thing
I'll be asking for is stuff nobody else wants.
I think I'll ask for an N-gage next year.
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T AM 6 YEARS OLD
