Confessions of a reluctant Santa

You know what kids do when they meet Santa? They crawl up on his lap, and tell him they’ve been “nice” not naughty, they ask for a ton of shit I have no idea if the parents are getting them…..and they cropdust, non-stop.

Seriously. My chiropractor has brought his kids two years in a row, and I don’t know if they live on some sort of velociraptor diet or what, but they turned Santa’s beard white. The first time I just giggled. Then I gagged.

For those who don’t know, yes, my wife has roped me into playing Santa. She’s a phenomenal photographer, but her business is incredibly cyclical, and Christmas is the big one. So somehow she signed me up to be Santa last year, and I got roped into it again this year. She pays me in “Santa currency” which is to say I get left alone for a weekend or two, and get nothing else.

The first thing you need to know about being Santa is that bleaching your hair hurts like hell. This year I was on 3 Xanax when I got in the chair. I could have been run over by a HMMWV and not felt it, or so I thought. Nope. I’m telling you that shit burns. One of the main reasons I can’t just say “screw it” and shave is because of the blisters on my face.

Being with the kids is largely fine. I could be a mall Santa and it would be fine. But somehow my wife managed to schedule these things over a 3 week period, so I looked like a jackass for weeks. My self esteem is pretty much in the crapper. At one point this year she said we had a private event on or at “Green Street.” Whatever, I have no idea where Green Street is… And then I found out it was a bar. So I have to go tramping into a saloon while non-hirsute, non-elves are drinking their Guinness, and I have to be heckled the whole way. Major Suckage. Meanwhile, for 3 weeks I can’t drink a Guinness without a straw or it gets stuck in my white beard.

Anyway, the whole kids thing is a lot like Moot Court. The kids drill you with questions you have no way of answering.

Santa, how’d you get here?

Now, the real answer is “In a POS Honda Odyssey driven by a woman who makes Stevie Wonder look like Mario Andretti.” Of course I can’t say that.

I came by plane from the North Pole, I connected through ORD where a TSA lady with huge hands pulled down Santa’s pants and did a cavity search.

Can you bring me a Doc McStuffins?

What in the hell is a Doc McStuffins? That sounds bad, like what should be written on some pederasts van.

Of course I can bring you a Doc McStuffins, let me get the Elves on that.

Do you want to talk to Christopher, our Elf on a shelf?

You named your Elf Christopher? How can I talk to him, he’s made of plastic. You know why he isn’t with me making toys? He had a problem with HR after a few sexual harassment claims.

Oh, by all means, let me go talk to Christopher.

How many Elves work for you?

Because of UN child worker treaties and their propensity to drink massive quantities of moonshine I had to let them go. I only work with true sausage fingered midgets now.

Millions of Elves. Most are on kids shelves, but the others work 8 hours a day for all the hot chocolate I can make them.

Can I feed Rudolph?

Oh hells no. Rudolph is in rehab, for biting the fingers off little children.

No, if he gets touched by humans he loses the power to fly.

Seriously, how does one answer these questions?

Category: Politics