Santa, that bearded, jolly, gift-giving symbol of "behave, or else!" Santa, that self-appointed judge and jury of who's naughty and who's nice, that fodder for children's stories, that deceptively like-able fellow who has the final say over whether or not you receive gifts or a stocking full of coal... Who gave you that power anyways, fat guy?
For ages this over weight candidate for a heart-attack has been the symbol of what kept most kids in line throughout the year. Want that new huffy bike? Better keep your grades up! Love that new Clay Aiken CD? Keep being nice to your lecherous little sister! Want to get a hold of that Wii? Better stop stealing valium from mommy! Have your eye on that shiny new Red Rider Bee-bee gun? Ah! You'll shoot your eye out, kid!
The idea of Santa keeping an eye on each and everyone of us, tirelessly catching all of our wrong-doings, and all of our rights, is sinisterly reminiscent of 1984 and Big Brother, The Lord of the Rings and the Eye of Sauron, the Smurfs and Gargamel. Ok, maybe not that latter, but you get my meaning. Santa represents the idea of an omniscient being with the power to rip away the joy from the most important day in a kids life and replace it with a dirty sock full of coal.
Now, despite the overall tone thus far of this posting, I'd like to submit that I am a complete sap when it comes to Christmas. Hard to believe! I know. But the truth of the matter is that I own Holiday Inn, White Christmas, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, The Elf, A Christmas Story, Charlie Brown's Christmas, The Grinch, and Polar Express. Yes, I'm a complete cheese-ball. Go ahead and yuck it up. But here's the thing: I love the spirit of Christmas. I love the idea of spreading unconditional love, joy, peace, and happiness. I love the damned sappiness of the cheesiest of Christmas songs (with the exception of Last Christmas, by Wham!. Want to see that vein on my forehead stick out and throb? Play that song. I dare you. I'll show Santa naughty...). But, more than anything else, even more than the well being of my own ego, most of what I love about Christmas is my family. And I love what Christmas stands for, in the context of family. In essence, I do love Christmas. Hell, I'm writing this blog by the lights of my Charlie-Brown-esque Christmas tree that I picked out from the field myself! (my friend Robin likened the chopping of the little guy to an abortion. How's that for holiday cheer?)
So why the tirade against Jolly Ol' St. Nick? To be honest, I have no good reason except for my own misgivings for having played by his rules for so long. Why, in the name of Pete (who is this Pete guy anyways?), would I waste so many opportunities for misguided, good-old-fashioned fun, just to appease the Christmas Dictator? Why did I pass up all of those terribly tempting opportunities for mischief? For stuff! That's why! I wanted stuff. And what do we do when we want stuff in America? We get it. Just ask all of those McDonald-eating, Judge Judy-watching, I-got-into-a-car-wreck-and-want-my-money-now patriotic souls what we do when we want stuff. We get it. And ironically, somehow Santa is where it all starts.
So what do I say to you, Big Guy? Here's what: One full year, 365 days and nights, full of all the trouble my twisted brain can think of is well worth that measely, dirty, dingy, stinky stocking full of coal (I'll sell it to the train yard) that you give me in return.
I'm going to Vegas.
