Santa Claus

That Asshole Krampus

Everyone loves Santa Claus–you know? That should be the next Everyone Loves Raymond; can we get someone on that? Production team? Anyone? I can cast Rino Romano as an angry elf…


Right. Back to work now.

Everyone loves Santa Claus.

Everyone loves Rudolph.

Everyone loves Frosty.

But everyone hates that asshole Krampus.

Seriously. In the lore of Yuletide it is written down: and so forth that asshole Krampus crashed our kicking crib with all his whip and chain shit…he totally killed the radical Daddy Claus vibe we had going on… It drags on for a bit: when those Yule folks had something to say they said it; you should see this book, it’s 1000 pages of Christmas rap songs and Yuletide bash songs.

But we are not here to waste time. Krampus wastes time. He’s an asshole.

The guy whips naughty kids. What, did the lists not work for him? He draws up these mountainous scrolls of names as he sits at his throne and eats the limbs of bad children; but does he actually read them? Does he go through and say: “Here’s a no good brat. There’s another. What to do? I know! I’ll whip ’em all and stuff coal in their shoes.”

Psychologists, pay attention. That is the mind of a deranged goat monster.

And does Santa Claus–the father of joy and bellies stuffed with chocolate chip cookies– operate against Krampus? I don’t think so. He stays at the North Pole with his elves and his  reindeers and his wives–excuse me, wife; I was still reading about Daddy Claus in the lore–and, guess what, he checks his lists twice and goes to bed.

Mindset of Santa Claus: Oh…so many unpleasant children this year. There’s Little Timmy Peterson–the little tike peed in the school parking lot on the…ah, the principal’s car; and Susie Geraldine tied her sister’s hair in a ceiling fan. Well. Pity. I suppose Krampus is going to whip them all. I could call and argue him out of it; but…right now I think I would prefer to fall asleep and dream up Christmas rap lyrics–MTV did promise me that music video…

Yeah; gee, you’re a real fun guy, Santa. All that warm milk is going to your fat head.

But, hey, he’s better than Krampus; although in recent years the horned demon has gotten the better end of the Hollywood treatment…while Santa has to cope with Bad Santa and that Tim Allen trilogy.

What to take away from this?

Krampus may be that asshole and it may suck when he whips all those naughty children; but, during this festive holiday season, we all should try to remember the most important lesson of the Christmas tradition:

Being a snot nosed brat will only ever get you coal…and a super sore butt.

Think daily,

A Southpaw 






Silverish Bells–It’s Christmastime?

All right, people, let’s get it out of the way–Santa Claus. You believe in the tubby man wholeheartedly, or, say, you happen to be descended from Ebenezer Scrooge, you think Santa can shove his cookie gobbling ass down the chimney; yet some of you do not have chimneys…

No smoking out the intruder this year. Put away those marshmallows.

This year, unlike other years–not calling out 2010 or anything; I mean, the milk was untouched when I woke up in the morning and the carrots were…moldy, not sure how that happens in nine hours either–Santa Claus will be believed.

Yes, throw away those horrid conspiracy pamphlets written by the same people who believe the moon landing was directed by Stanley Kubrick, as well the shameful Christmas horror movies–for kicks toss in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, the one with Jim Carrey; it is for the best.

Open the box, go on, you know which box, you sly dog; it’s the one containing the cookie plate and the milk mug. Why? You think Santa won’t want an appetizer in New York before he flies to Hong Kong–this ain’t the Red Eye, folks; this be Sleigh Express, taking American Airlines out of business since the dawn of time.

And the presents–

Whoah! Don’t show them! It’s like you’re flashing around a pair of dirty underpants: no wants to see them until Christmas, in this case, Christmas dinner, and it ruins the season for all who gaze upon them. Yuck. Skid marks. Quit rubbing chocolate bars on the underpants!

There. Set them down easy underneath the tree–on second thought, tie up your dog before he pisses on the wrapping. Okay…all is in place, and all is hidden; save for the bicycle.

After setting out decorations the best thing to do is counsel your children…if you have children. Please don’t go steal a Tiny Tim from off a doorstep so someone can eat your fruitcake.

Tell them:

Santa Claus is…

Oh, I almost forgot the best part–the Christmas carols! Personally I can do a little ditty on Silent Night; but, see, that was when I was eleven years old…hard to sing in heavenly peace at seventeen. What you want to do is–

Not sing any Christmas carols whatsoever.

Hello?  Who is this?

I am the Santa Advisor. 

The Santa Advi–I thought the elves gave Santa advice?

I do not give Santa Claus advice, you fruitcake. It is rather to the families in doubt.

Doubt about…

Whether or not Santa Claus is real. I advise a certain answer for each family. 

You can’t do that. A family should decide on their belief of Santa themselves.

Not according to the rulebook…

Rulebook, schmulebook! Santa Claus is an individual opinion for everyone!

Santa Claus is a definite figure in the world and no one can–

Enough! Get out of my studio!

What studio? This is a broom closet. I see a mop and bucket for the janitor. 

Then get out of my closet! And take your elitist Santa views with you!

Bah, humbug.

Is he gone? Thank Rudolph…Oh, man, he totally spilled my soap bucket! Hang on, have to rip out some paper towels and sop this up. Doo doo do. And it is–Oh. The soap is leaking through the paper towels. Right.

At least it’s Christmastime.

Think daily,

A Southpaw