This Christmas, millions of children will be anxiously awaiting the annual visit from Santa Claus. They were good all year just so Santa could bring them exactly what they asked for. Most will write letters and mail them to the North Pole. Many will even wait in line for what seems like an eternity just to sit on his lap and talk to him in person. When Christmas morning finally arrives, their little eyes will light up brighter than the Griswolds' house when they tear off the wrapping paper and see that Santa delivered on his promise. All the joy of childhood and its simple innocence is summed up in one amazing moment.
This needs to stop.
Let me tell you a story. When I was a little boy, I wanted a bicycle more than anything. Unfortunately, my dad was a drunk and frequently unemployed. My only hope was Kris Kringle. I wrote him letters begging for a bike. For years, my wish went ungranted. Until one Christmas morning, I ran into the living room and saw a large present "from Santa." I'll give you a moment to guess what it was. Time's up. A bike!
A pink, girl's bike.
As it so happened, my old man stole the bike from the girl next door just to make me happy. It wasn't until the neighbors found out and threatened to call the police that the bike was returned. However, my dad let me ride it one more time around the block before I had to give it back. That very day I fell off the bike, cracked my skull on the concrete, and was put into a coma for 3 months. I almost died. But that's a story for another time. The important thing is that I found out the truth about Santa Claus.
Once I was out of the hospital and back in school, I told a bunch of kids at my lunch table the truth: There is no Santa Claus. It's your parents playing a trick on you. And you know something? It felt good. Really good. I felt smart for knowing this, and, more importantly, I felt superior. Soon I told everyone in my grade that Santa wasn't real. It didn't end there. When I got into higher grades, I told the much younger kids that Santa was imaginary every chance I got. The looks on their faces when they were about to break into tears was priceless. Those were my cherished Christmas memories.
Your cries are music to my ears.
Decades later, I'm still happily destroying Santa for children. Sometimes I'll go to the mall and whisper into little kids' ears, "Hey, pull his beard when you get up there."
(Well, at least I used to. The fat-ass mall "cops" won't let me near children anymore.)
It's my ultimate dream that the Santa Claus legend will be exposed to the masses. Hence, we turn to the origin of the American Santa phenomenon: The beloved poem "A Visit from St. Nicholas," better known as "The Night Before Christmas," written by Clement Clarke Moore in 1823. One of the most famous pieces of Christmas literature, nothing pleases me more than to ruin it for everyone. I've taken the liberty to post the entire poem online with my awesome, witty commentary.
We adults cannot continue to promote this stupid myth. It's harmful. It causes cracked skulls and comas. The time has come for children to stop believing in fantasies and face the cold, harsh, lying world ahead of them. Ho ho ho.
Just Say "NO" to Santa Claus
Highlights
"A Visit from St. Nicholas" epitomizes the ridiculousness of Santa Claus. I placed notes aside the poem highlighting all the stupid parts, because chances are you're too hung-over from your holiday "eggnog" to study it yourself. These cute little colorful icons will help:
Science
History
Absurdity
Intolerance
Homosexuality
Women
Family Values
Sex
Now, I consider myself a good sport, and since the poem doesn't totally suck, I have a "thumbs up" icon for all the good stuff:
Good Stuff
Enough of this stalling. On to the damn poem...
A Visit From St. Nicholas
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
"The stockings were hung by the chimney" Hanging socks on a fireplace is friggin' asinine.
"In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there" The family is waiting for a man who has been dead for 16 centuries.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And Mama in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
"..visions of sugar-plums danced.." Dancing sugar plums is the gayest thing ever.
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
"I flew like a flash" Human beings can't run at the speed of a flash, except for the Flash.
"The moon on the breast" Moore is talking about a naked butt rubbing against a breast in a poem that he wrote for his children.
"Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below" In no way could the moon have possibly been so bright that it would make night look like midday.
"..eight tiny reindeer" Reindeer are not tiny. A male reindeer can weigh up to 300 lbs. Perhaps these reindeer suffer from dwarfism? We already know Santa has a dwarf fetish.
"More rapid than eagles" Reindeer can run fast, but not quick enough to stay airbourne, as this flouts some fundamental laws of gravity and aerodynamics. This line could indicate the observer smoked a Yuletide joint earlier.
"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
"Vixen" Vixen.
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky" Leaves will not pile up to the sky, no matter how hard the wind is blowing. (Besides, who's going to build a wall that high? Foreigners?)
"So up to the house-top the coursers they flew" Rein. Deer. Can. NOT. FLYYYYYYY!!
They can hula hoop, though.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
"He was dressed all in fur" I'm sure animal lovers appreciate St. Nick's taste in fashion. FUR ≥ MURDER!
"And he looked like a peddler" How do you know that he is not, in fact, a peddler? He could be robbing your sorry ass. You're a horrible father.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
"His eyes-how they twinkled!" His description of Father Christmas is very, very faggy. Get a room!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
"The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth" What kind of message is this sending? "Hey kids, smoking is cool because Santa does it!"
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
"A right jolly old elf" There are no such beings. Piss off, Tolkien nerds.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!
"And laying his finger aside of his nose...up the chimney he rose!"
Try this one for yourself. You see that laying a finger aside of the nose and giving a nod will not make one levitate. However, putting it up inside your nose and giving a dig can lead to euphoria.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"
"Happy Christmas to all..." Jews, Hindus, Muslims, etc., generally don't celebrate Christmas.
"...and to all a good night!" Half of the world was experiencing daytime when he exclaimed this.
The Story's Over
I lied. There is no good stuff. This awful poem sucks balls.
Enjoy their presents, and rejoice their jolly names. If you are still confused about which one you want, you were probably much better off with Original Santa.
Science
History
Absurdity
Intolerance
Homosexuality
Women
Family Values
Sex
Good Stuff
