Julian Fantino’s correspondence as a child

In the aftermath of today’s Globe story, a closer look at Conservative MP Julian Fantino’s formative years…

• • •

Dear Santa Claus,

You call this a sweater? Eight years I’ve worn sweaters. Eight. Years.

And you come at me with acrylic?

I would rather stare into the barrel of a loaded .45 than this garish shade of royal blue.

I am driven by three things: I know who I am, I know what I’m here to do and acrylic sucks arse. You just pushed the wrong buttons, red.

Bought into the whole jolly elf thing. Four minutes I spent sitting on the knee. Specific mentions made of natural fibers. And then this.

And all the nonsense about me being “naughty?” Ludicrous. Anyone could have spray-painted my name on the family dog.

You come at me with these allegations and I’m going to come right back at you. I call it the Hitler Theory, in that it’s my theory that you are worse than Hitler.

Yours in dismay,

Master Julian Fantino

P.S. I made the dog lick all three of the cookies I left for you.

• • •

Dear Tooth Fairy,

A dime? Are you kidding me?

Six years now I’ve had that incisor. Six years of chewing, brushing, smiling. Six years of harrowing ordeals with hard candy and that goddamn caramel apple from last summer. Heroism on display.

And you come at me with 10 cents?

Here’s me – spending six years dealing with the lowest scum of our society: bullies, teachers, dentists. And here’s you – with a dime.

Put your fairy hand under my pillow with anything less than a quarter next time. Go ahead – try it. Maybe you’ll get it back, maybe you won’t.

Yours in disappointment,

Master Julian Fantino

• • •

To the Easter Bunny:

The picture frame? Really? You actually have the nerve to call the picture frame a “hiding place?”

Nine years now of staring daily into the abyss of missing toys. Nine years of hunting, searching, always against the odds: closet, couch, even under the bed. Nine years in the shit.

And you insult me with a chocolate egg on the family portrait? That’s eye level for a nine-year-old, moron.

I thought I was dealing with a professional.

Yours in disenchantment,

Master Julian Fantino


Looking for more?

Get the best of Maclean's sent straight to your inbox. Sign up for news, commentary and analysis.