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A used car salesman promises his dorky kid a white X-mas up in the mountains. And the little chump actually buys it like paint sealant. The plans are ruined when the Dad's disgusting boss forces him to work 12-hour days until X-mas Eve to unload a bunch of suspiciously obtained cars. Dad disappoints kid and hostile Mom with his web of lies and they leave him. One night, Dad is visited by a magical elf with electricity shooting out her palms who nearly electrocutes the dumbass. Over the next few days, the elf torments the guy into changing his lying ways, but doofus Dad the slobbering idiot continues to lie and cheat people into buying crappy cars. One morning he wakes up with a full white beard and pillow-stuffed stomach and instead of going to the hospital, he uses this transformation to make a final push for sales. Meanwhile, the kid inexplicably has inherited the elf's electrical powers and he goes around healing people for money to buy his Mom flowers in his imbecilic Dad's name. Um, what? Mom’s clam quivers at the good deed, but the ruse backfires when she sees moron Dad on TV hawking cars as Santa. The elf reappears and shocks him again, but not nearly enough to satisfy my wish for a painful death. She teleports his stupid ass to the North Pole where he meets a talking owl who embodies all the craftsmanship of the $.99 Store clearance bin. The owl directs him to the abandoned Santa’s Village in
First, I want to apologize for not writing to you these many years past. Second, thanks so much for last year's gold-plated mask and diamond-studded championship belt. I was a big hit at the Mexican Wrestler Movie Blogger X-mas Ball. Third, I want to call to your attention a disturbing trend that has been occurring for hundreds of years. Good sir, your name is being raped. Yes, violated, desecrated, and tapped with pelvic-thrusting impunity up your holly jolly poop-hole. Various versions of this inhuman violation have ranged from shopping mall mockeries, repetitive jingle-tunes, kid-killing sweatshop toys, Walmart tramplings, and Tim Allen. But none measure a light year near the butt-breach of Fred Olen Ray’s Dear Santa. You’ve got a heinous creature in the form of a dim-witted Dad who somehow deserves to be Santa and win back his kid. You’ve got a menopausal Mom who destroys her family if she doesn’t get the nice X-mas vacation. You’ve got hateful precocious children, failed stand-up comedians, wacky sound effects, plotting by mental patient, community theater rejects, and all the intense production design of a matchbook nativity scene. Hell, I could rewrite the 12 Days of X-mas at this point. So the reason I’m writing is to ask to let me help you. Let me be your Secret Santa, dear St. Nick. Arm me with your shiniest sniper rifle, your brightest rocket launcher, and your quickest assault chopper and I promise I will rid the world of shitty shitty shitty Santa movies. I’ll even supply a big fat red bow for the burning heaps of vengeance. I hope you seriously consider my wish, Santa. Have a Merry Christmas, because I doubt the makers of Dear Santa will.
Your Cinematic Assassin,