Dear Superman:
This is what I want for Christmas.
The power to blow things up with my mind.
If this is too broad a thing to ask for, what I want then is the power to blow cars up with my mind.
Superman, if you could only do something about all these people that are driving (licensed by the state, apparently) then I would be ever so grateful.
Or maybe, you could give me some kind of radio signalling device. It would override the signal in their car whenever I pointed my transmitter at the offending car. One second, they'd be listening to "Pleasant Valley Sunday," and the next I would be talking (perhaps screaming) at them through their car's own speakers! Maybe they'd think that I was you, Superman. Maybe then they would listen.
Why is it, Superman, that every Friday every Bedouin Camel-Trader or Amish Vegetable Caravan or simply the Dirt Farmer Tractor Brigade has to be out on the roads--the ones that I drive on--and in my way? Couldn't you just simply designate Wednesday as Get Out and Drive Really Dangerously Day? And then Thursday would be Slowpoke Thursday?
For Christmas, Superman, instead of my previous list (mailed to you care of President George W. Bush in September of this year (2002), in which I asked for a Q-Bert Game, a kitten, a six-pack of Natty Light, that Dukes of Hazzard car you've owed me since 1983 and a mallet), I ask only for vengeance.
Although the point could be made that sweet vengeance could be obtained with a mallet.
I hope you have a good Christmas, Superman. I'll live a Swiss Cake Roll and a Coke out under the tree for you, and a bunch of carrots for your reindeers.
I love you, Superman.

Your buddy,
Big Stupid Tommy