I’m sitting on the sofa. I turn the television channel to a popular family-friendly cable network. I know I can count on a happily-ever-after story when I watch this channel during the holidays. Which is why I cannot stop watching these sappy movies.

(SCENE 1: A BIG-CITY NEWSPAPER OFFICE. THE EDITOR IS TALKING TO TIFFANY, A BLONDE REPORTER WHO DRINKS COFFEE FROM A COFFEE-SHOP-STYLE PAPER CUP.)

EDITOR: Tiffany, it’s almost Christmas, and I need you to travel to Quaintville to cover an important story!

TIFFANY: Quaintville? Is that a real town?

EDITOR: Who cares? This is a cable movie, and I’m supposed to be your grumpy but lovable editor, sorta like What’s-His-Name from “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.”

TIFFANY: Ed Asner?

EDITOR: Whatever. All I know is that the script says you’re an independent single woman, but you’re filled with indescribably painful angst and romantic longing.

TIFFANY: I’m on it, Chief.

(SCENE 2: TIFFANY ARRIVES IN QUAINTVILLE, SHE GOES ICE SKATING. SHE MEETS A HANDSOME MAN SKATING WITH HIS DAUGHTER.)

LEADING MAN: Hi. You must be the leading lady.

TIFFANY: How did you know?

HIM: You’re

holding a paper coffee cup.

TIFFANY: My contract stipulates that I have to drink coffee from a paper cup in every scene. But sometimes I drink Orange Fanta.

HIM: My contract requires me to wear heavy plaid flannel shirts even though we’re obviously filming this in July and I’m sweating my buttcheeks off.

TIFFANY: Is that your daughter?

HIM: Yes, I’m a widower, filled with indescribably painful angst and romantic longing.

TIFFANY: How did your wife die?

HIM: The script never says.

(SCENE 3: ANNUAL QUAINTVILLE CHRISTMAS PARADE. LEADING MAN AND DAUGHTER ARE WATCHING PARADE WHEN TIFFANY BUMPS INTO THEM.)

DAUGHTER: Look, Daddy! That lady is drinking coffee in a paper cup again! Just like they always do in the TV show “Gilmore Girls.”

LEADING MAN: Totally different network, sweetie.

TIFFANY: Fancy meeting you…

We have about a month until Christmas, and I’m asking people a simple question on Santa’s behalf. He actually asked me to do this.

Well actually, it was Santa’s secretary who called me ultra-long-distance to ask.

Or, if we’re getting super technical, it was his secretary’s assistant’s intern, Stacy, who called me. Santa has a lot of people on his payroll. But hey, he’s tax exempt so who cares? Stacy tells me the elves get great insurance, with full dental.

But anyway, the question Santa wants to know is: What do you want for Christmas?

There are no limits to how you answer. And nobody will judge you for what you want. Granted, if you ask for something like a 2020 Range Rover Evoque, forest green, with a sunroof, people might snicker at you and call you a shallow, narcissistic, self-important, gas-guzzling pig who is partly responsible for the perpetuation of American greed. But Santa won’t think that.

As it happens, a little boy (Brayden, age 8, Missouri) actually sent me his Christmas list. Which

is what inspired the idea for this column. Along with Santa’s phone call, of course.

Brayden asked for:

—A swingset.
—Bluetooth earbuds.
—A real bunny.
—Red duck tap.
—Checkered Vans.
—6,000 dollars.

So now it’s your turn. Maybe you want something odd, such as a gift certificate to Golden Corral, or a coin-operated pony ride. Maybe you want a ski-resort vacation. A reverse mortgage. A pet alligator.

Maybe you are a kid who is being raised as a Primitive Freewill Fundamentalist against your will and your parents don’t believe in celebrating Christmas because it was originally a Pagan holiday and in your household your parents believe that Santa represents Satan.

If you live in a house like this, listen to me carefully: Your Christmas is probably going to suck. Send me a letter, pronto. I’ll get it to the Big…

DEAR SEAN:

What is your favorite Christmas movie? Mine is “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” the one with Yukon Cornelius, and my mom says you look like him. Not Rudolph she means, but Yukon Cornelius.

Thanks,
KIMBERLY IN PENNSYLVANIA

DEAR KIMBERLY:

It’s a little early for Christmas movies, but I appreciate the compliment. Sort of. I mean, Yukon Cornelius isn’t a bad-looking guy per se. But he’s a little chunky, and I’ll bet five bucks he has severe sleep apnea.

I’ll be honest, I would much rather look like, for example, James Bond. But then I suppose looking like Yukon Cornelius is better than resembling the Abominable Snowman, or worse, Dudley Moore.

One of my good friends—for privacy reasons let’s call him Randy Hopkins—went white-haired prematurely. Overnight, Randy was transformed into Santa. All of a sudden, kids were approaching him on the street and asking for Barbie dolls, Batman figurines, peace in the Middle East, etc.

My friend would always bend down and smile at them with this wintery magical look on his face and say, “I’m younger

than your mom, you little brat.”

But you asked about my favorite movie. Firstly, you should know that this is a tough question. There are too many good ones to count.

When I was a kid I loved “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (1964),” just like you do. Especially Yukon Cornelius and the show’s hit song, “Silver and Gold.” Which I will refuse to sing from now on because I am self conscious after receiving your letter.

I also like “Frosty the Snowman (1969).” Whenever I hear Burl Ives sing about Frosty, I am a five-year-old again, drinking turkey gravy directly from my mother’s gravy boat, even though I know that my aunt Eulah will catch me and possibly beat me within an inch of my life using a wet dishrag.

“A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965).” It doesn’t get any better.

“It’s a…

COLUMBUS—It’s morning. We are at the Stewart Community Home homeless shelter. Kara is our tour guide today, she helps run the place.

We begin the grand tour at the reception desk. Here, Christmas decorations have already come out. On the desk there is a colorful plastic mailbox which is labeled: “Santa’s Mailbox.”

“That’s where residents put their Christmas lists,” says Kara. “They pick three things they want from Santa, and we buy them. We have a guy who plays Santa Claus, he’s got the real beard and everything. You should see our Christmases, most fun you’ll ever have.”

I ask what kinds of gifts residents ask Santa for. Kara says they mostly ask for socks, hats, mittens, underwear, or haircuts.

“Last year,” Kara says, “one lady just wanted an arts and crafts set. You know, it’s the little things.”

An elderly black woman shuffles to Santa’s Mailbox and places a letter inside. She does not make eye contact with me. She hurries away before I can talk to her.

I meet a middle-aged woman in a wheelchair. She

has one leg. She is parked in the hallway so she can greet passers-by.

“She’s been through hell,” Kara whispers. “First a horrible divorce, then doctors found a blood clot, she lost her leg, lost her job, her money, no family. We found her living in her car with her cat.”

This is just one version of a similar story for most residents here. And you can see this story all over their faces.

An old man in slippers walks the halls accompanied by a tiny dog on a leash. The dog is named Rat Rat.

“Hey, Rat Rat,” says Kara.

The old man says, “Where’re your manners, Rat? Say hello to the young lady.”

We all take turns greeting Rat Rat. Then, the old man lifts the dog into his arms for a kiss. These two have been together for a…

There is a perfectly good reason why for breakfast I ate a leftover fried chicken breast that was big enough to qualify as an amusement-park ride at Dollywood. Because my wife is a Southern woman.

And this is what we eat in our household sometimes.

These days, the public image of Southerners has become skewed by popular culture. Take entertainment television.

There is a new breed of reality TV shows which often feature Southerners as leading characters. These characters often use corny “downhome” phrases which were actually invented by television script writers who all grew up spending summers in Martha’s Vineyard.

These writers come up with phrases like:

“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, son.”

And “Sweet as sugar, baby child.”

And “That is finer than THE frog’s hair.”

This is an affront. Nobody I know says, “THE frog’s hair.” There is no “the” in this well-loved phrase. When misused this way, this phrase seems to imply that there is a proverbial frog traipsing around THE Great American South wearing a little hairstyle like THE Reverend Jerry Falwell and constantly reapplying

THE Brylcreem to its little rug.

Anyone will tell you that the expression simply goes: “Finer than frog hair.”

Of course, there are regional variations of this expression.

If you travel below Tennessee, for example, you might hear, “Finer than frog hair split four ways.”

Go to middle Alabama and they will say, “Finer than frog hair split four ways, sifted ten times.”

Travel below Montgomery and they will simply say, “Day-um.”

So Southerners are often portrayed as complete idiots on television. This is sad. Because there was once a time when Jimmy Dean, Buck Owens, Andy Griffith, Dolly Parton, and Porter Wagoner graced the television air waves.

Whereas today, you see young people talking in hammed-up country accents, using the word “y’all” in the wrong place. And this is perhaps the worst offense of all.

Contrary to Hollywood’s opinion,…