I remember waiting up at night for Santa to come down the chimney with his overstuffed bag of goodies. I remember leaving cookies out for him, hoping it would increase the chances that, under the tree the following morning, would be one of the larger toys from his sack. Or, at the very least, something other than a lump of coal.
Seriously, what’s up with that lump of coal bullshit? What a smarmy piece of shit that Santa Claus is. Like I needed a fistful of blackened rock to tell me I fucked up that year? Right. Because six detentions and a parent/teacher conference weren’t enough of a giveaway. I grew up with the understanding that, if I had nothing nice to say, I shouldn’t say anything at all. Or say it quietly to someone close by. But, not Santa. He thinks you’re a colossal crew up and he’ll stop at nothing to let you know it. Go blow Prancer you fat fuck.
But, I was a kid. I wouldn’t develop these hostile feelings toward the world’s jolliest man until much later in life. Back then, visions of sugar plums danced in my head, and so I sat up and waited for him to gracefully float down my chimney and deliver the goods.
I never actually caught him in the act, though.
For starters, I was 6, my bed time was 8 and Santa didn’t reach Miami till sometime around 3 in the morning. At least that’s what my mom always said. Also, we had no chimney, So I had no idea how the hell he was going to get in without a key. (My parents wouldn’t even let me have a key until I turned 15, so there was no way my mom was giving one to a bearded fat man who made absolutely no attempt to hide his love for little children.) To get in my house, Santa would have to have some serious magic powers or be perfectly comfortable performing a B&E. But, most importantly, I was Jewish, so I wasn’t sure exactly why he was visiting my house to begin with. Whatever. As long as he brought presents.
Things with Santa never added up, though, and it took me a while to catch on. I mean, why would my mom always leave out the most godawful almond cookies for him? Nobody on Earth likes almond cookies except my dad. Wouldn’t you want to impress the one man responsible for the happiness of your children every winter? Instead, every Christmas morning, there would be a plate of untouched cookies on the kitchen table and a happy dad sitting in front of it with a glass of milk…
And if Santa owned his own toy shop, why was he always on the side of the road, begging for money?
And elves? Elves, my ass. Jesus, Kringle, who are you? Nike?
Well, now I’m older and I know the truth behind Christmas. It’s a fucking sham. I mean, there’s no way one man could deliver that many gifts to that many houses in one night. The United States Post Office has a hard enough time delivering an envelope 3 blocks away in less than a week. There’s no such thing as Santa, or reindeer, or elves. Just TBS’s insistence on showing Home Alone seven times a day. And the NBA shoving pseudo-rivalries down my throat.
But, hey, there are presents involved, so maybe this Christmas thing isn’t so terrible, after all.
Don’t get me started on Easter, though.
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