A story about Santa Claus
People, I’m telling you straight up, Santa is NOT worth meeting. He is a crude and violent man.
One Christmas-eve night when I was about 15 or 16, I went downstairs to get something to drink and there he was. Even though I was a teenager, I was still excited to meet the great bearded one.
Well, that drunken bastard started yelling at me for not being in bed. I apologized, and started off back to bed, but then he challenged me to a fist fight. “Is he serious?” I wondered out loud. “I sure as hell am!” came his gin smelling, rough-voiced reply.
So I turned around to find that the heavy-set SOB was already coming at me, fists at the ready. I quickly dodged to the side and he bashed into the banister along the stairs. I ran to the family room to grab my Louisville slugger. Upon my return, I saw that that large, sweaty, bacon lump of a man was stuck! His head had been wedged between two poles of the banister when he lunged at me. I began to laugh ecstatically! This only increased his rage.
I began beating his ass with my bat, the over-grown cherry-bomb was begging for me to stop, but I wasn’t one to back down from a fight. I dominated him for a good three hours.
Then daylight broke. As the sunlight touched his being, right before my eyes his body transformed into a brood of crows. But these were not normal crows. These birds had no wings, and they had eight legs like spiders; horrible minions of the dark one! They scurried up the chimney.
My parents, amazingly never woken up by the three hour ruckus and scream-fest, came down to see me standing there alone with a baseball bat. All the presents had been destroyed. The house was a mess, with only me to blame.
Of course they still don’t believe me to this day, but I’m telling you guys, Santa is one mean SOB! Pay much heed these words, my dear friends, you are best to stay clear of the red menace. He leaves ruin in his wake, and personifies the signs of the apocalypse.
My advice: On Christmas-eve, for the love of all that is holy, STAY IN BED!!!
