Brendan:
(pensively)
Dear Santa,
(pauses, smirks)
For next Christmas, I want... hmm, where to start? Oh yes, a robot revolution of self-reproducing robots. You know, the kind that can build themselves and make me breakfast. Efficiency is key, Santa.
(scribbles dramatically)
Then I want total control of Earth. Actually, scratch that-make it the galaxy. Let’s think big. And while you’re at it, I’d like to be totally vindicated. Every doubter who ever said, “Brendan, you can’t do that!” should be legally obligated to bake me cookies.
(leans closer to the paper)
I want ascension, Santa. Full-on glowing-green-eyes, energy-orb, ascending-to-the-next-dimension-level ascension. Like when people see me, they just say, “Wow, there goes Brendan-probably the greatest being in existence.”
(pauses, taps quill on chin)
Oh, and fame. Like, the good kind of fame-not the why-is-he-in-handcuffs-on-the-news fame. I’m talking statues, Santa. Everywhere.
(writes faster)
Let’s not forget glory. Glory in the cosmic sense, you know? Like, people naming planets after me. “Welcome to Brendan-7, population: totally stoked!”
(with a grin)
And, of course, obscene wealth. I want to look at a gold toilet and think, “Nah, too cheap.”
(leans back, admiring the letter)
Oh, and peace on Earth, I guess. Can’t have the robots revolting before I get to gloat a little.
(signs it with a flourish)
Sincerely,
Brendan Bradley Werth-future overlord of everything
(pauses, folds letter, then looks up at the audience with a mischievous grin)
Brendan:
...You think Santa’s hiring for project managers? I have some ideas.
(Curtain closes as audience laughs)