Santa came last night. He bypassed the milk and went straight for the liquor cabinet. Even finished off the last of the Captain Morgan's. And it isn't as if he didn't see the milk because the fat bastard ate all the cookies. Chocolate macadamia nut. Crumbs all over, ground in the carpet by a size ten Koolaburra with a mix of slush and what, judging by the smell, is reindeer manure. This is just great.
It's not like I didn't see this coming. For the past couple of years, Kris has been getting sloppy. Two years ago he brought two gifts for Madison and forgot Joshua completely. Now that I think about it, I can trace Josh's diagnosis back to that Christmas. Thousands of dollars in counseling fees and countless sleepless nights thanks to ol' St. Nick. Or should I say, "St. Prick?"
Then there was last year. Mr. Red Pants hooked a power line with a runner on his sleigh and took out the electricity to the neighborhood for six and a half hours. On Christmas morning. No blinky lights, no Jingle Bells, no coffee. Of course Johnson next door tried to excuse him. Said he'd heard Blitzen had a nasty cold and wasn't flying up to par. Yeah, whatever. Everyone is always cutting the big man slack. Oooh, he's so jolly and full of cheer. Well I'm not buying it. My guess is that he was flying drunk and by the looks of my living room this year--the broken ornaments, the haphazard wrapping jobs, and, of course, the deer shit--I'm sure I'm right.
So, while you're all sipping eggnog and singing carols, I'll be steamcleaning the carpet and trying to explain to Josh that, "No, Santa doesn't think you're a little girl because he brought you a Hannah Montana play set this year." I want to tell him the truth. Santa's a total lush, Josh. You know how your Uncle Harold gets at Thanksgiving? Santa is the same way. He gets confused. He has a problem. He needs help. But, of course, I can't tell him that. Besides, he'd never believe me anyway. Like most of you people, he's been brainwashed by a steady stream of pro Santa propaganda flowing out of the North Pole. No, it's better to spring for the therapist and keep my mouth shut.
Merry Christmas anyway.