I have always been polite in my previous correspondence, and I've been good, nauseatingly so at times, but your seasonal offerings of later years have left me cold. I don't like being taken for granted. I have therefore decided to end our relationship. You are no longer on my Christmas card list.
Although, to be precise, I haven't exactly deleted you, more like transferred you, to another list.
What? You can't work it out for yourself? Okay, I'll give you a clue, if I must. It rhymes with a synonym for head lice.
Still in the dark, old man? Knocked your noggin on too many mantelpieces over the years, have we? Or perhaps all that snow has caused neuronic frostbite. But of course, all those free beers people leave out for you would've prompted some significant premature cell death, and then there's the saturated fat laced cookies that will be lining your arteries, slowing down the blood flow to your brain... I guess I may have to be a little less cryptic then. Get you up to speed. Let me spell it out for ya, Santa Pants--you're gonna go-go-go, ho-ho-ho, no-no-no longer.
Oops...did I just threaten to kill someone? I hope no policemen are reading this...