A Chimney Full of Gluttony

People are a little bit inconsistent. Perhaps that would explain how trick-or-treating in the traditional sense has become a thing that many parents consider negligent to a point of abuse. You know, because leading children on a supervised door to door run for pre-packaged candy is essentially begging strangers to fondle or poison them. Yet, from the mere age of three, we have been taught to enthusiastically await the arrival of an old, obese man with a preference for the meekest of us. Every year, on Christmas Eve, he sneaks into our homes in the dead of night, eats our food and watches us sleep. If we allow this to happen without interruption or protest, we are then showered with gifts.

We find this idea so universally appealing that decades after our little hearts have been shattered with the news that this man isn't real, we've forgiven the lie. We then, in turn, have let Santa take a great deal of the credit for Christmas gifts we purchase for our children, making an often thankless holiday season even more thankless by default. All in honor of a man who, were he not omniscient and immortal would have been someone's jail wife a thousand times over by now. Or dead from the diabetes. And so the cycle has continued into an era where money is sprouting wings and flying off into deep space before we even know it's there.

It's almost as though Santa Claus is one of the last little vestiges of hope and innocence that the Western World has chosen to cling to. Isn't that sweet? We still have one. Kind of an odd choice, though really. The drunk, bearded dude at the mall who we stand in line to hand our screaming children over to so he can then prop them onto his lap and breathe all over them? Why don't we just hand our kids over to a junkie we see passed out on the sidewalk? You don't have to stand in line for that. And if you really must document the experience, take a picture of the pair of them with your cell phone. That way you won't have to stand awkwardly in a cardboard representation of the North Pole while a stranger photographs one of your children being traumatized for the first time. We should just have Santa give the really little ones a flu shot right there, just to kill two birds with one stone.

Why do we still love this guy so much? It's not as though Santa Claus has really been holding himself up to the standard that we do anyway. How often does he make good on his promises? You were a kid once. Remember that bag of tube socks you got when you asked for a Tonka truck? You cleaned the gutters every, single week that year without being asked and even earned straight As. What do you think happened there? Did Santa blow your truck money on some more rum or perhaps a space heater to keep the tiny people he has working for him in the tundra from freezing to death? Maybe getting what you want for Christmas is like getting into Heaven. You have to be the perfect child. But then why did Santa give that rich kid in gym class who held you down and farted on your head a flying, robot bike that year? That didn't really jibe with all that "naughty or nice" Christmas justice you were taught about, now, did it?

Maybe Santa is simply some parents' idea of a scapegoat. An entity at which to deflect blame when the ridiculously opulent ideal of Christmas cannot be matched by their pocketbooks. But this can only temporarily bandage the inevitable scar of resentment that gouges it's way across every parent's heart when they realize that for about ten years, their children have hated them for a lot of really stupid reasons. And you can bet your ass that your children will add perceived Christmas failures to their list of stupid reasons why they hate you. It doesn't matter if you beat them within an inch of their life or bought them a football stadium full of ponies. Teenagers are vengeful little vortexes of need that cannot be corked by any force, natural or otherwise. And if there is one talent they all equally share, it's an ability to remember the ways you have failed them. If you have somehow produced an exception to this rule who has not yet reached the age of 25, a toast to you, my friend! You are made of miracles and rainbow sunsets and should be President of the World.

But what's to stop us all from beating our children at the pass? Break at least one cycle of imminent resentment this year by creating your own mythologies around Christmas! Ones that have more to do with giving than receiving. Dress up a giant box in a Santa suit and have your kids throw presents they got for each other into the box. Throw some random presents in there yourself and have your kids unwrap them and give them to each other. Make a Santa piñata filled with small, fun things that your family can enjoy together and bash the hell out of it. Let Santa absorb some of your kids' misdirected hormonal rage for once!

Get together as a family unit and write anonymous, threatening letters to known child molesters in your neighborhood and leave them on their doorsteps, attached to bags of homemade gingerbread cookies. Or hey, if we're gonna do the traditional Santa thing, let's get back to the Burl Ives version with the wooden, handmade toys and thoughtful sentiments instead of the increasingly perverse, wasteful, debt perpetuating one we have allowed Macy's to convince us that we love. It's getting icky and it doesn't really do a lot whole lot to promote the spirit of giving. Neither does picking through candy to see which pieces are poisoned but at least that's something we can all do together! Besides, you can always buy more candy because unlike football stadiums full of horses, candy is one of the few fun things left in this world that is CHEAP!!

So, here's hoping for a happy Christmas for everyone this year! If you're walking your toddler along and she screams bloody murder at the sight of a big, rosy cheeked bearded guy in a red suit, you should probably consider it a blessing that your child has well honed survival instincts and just run with it. Don't convince her to be this dude's friend. You may be saving yourself years of back peddling!