For too long, I’ve had to face the blatant lies that gentile parents feed their witless children. Every year, as the days get shorter and colder, they grow excited. “Santa is coming!” the morons cry. “What are you asking Santa for Christmas?” they ask each other naïvely. I can’t take it any longer, and I have to scream the truth: the man you know as Santa Claus isn’t real.
You may think my declaration comes from a point of jealousy. Every year, Santa has skipped over my house, turned away by a menorah glowing in the window. You think I’m just feeling left out. I have eight days of presents and an entire party dedicated to my thirteenth birthday; you have a lifetime based in shame and sin — what envious motivations do I have?
You race down the stairs to a pile of presents picked out carefully by your parents, but you squeal and thank a fake fantasy man up North for their time and effort. Do you really think the North Pole could sustain an entire factory? That there is a hundred-year-old elder living in a toy factory, enslaving elves to do his handiwork? That he flies through the night sky in less than a day to deliver presents to all of the world’s 526,000,000 Christian children? It’s nonsense, and it’s time you know.
