My belief in Santa has been sparked again this season, after more than two decades of jaded dismissal of the Man in Red as just another marketing ploy. Disheartening memories of Daddy cramming empty cardboard toy boxes into the Tuesday morning trash bins have been replaced by a new apprecation for the life-threatening risks my father took. And I understand now what happens to the multitudes of mall Santas at the end of each year.
Death. Even decapitation.
An underground news source recently revealed the true spirit of Christmas and how thousands of Santa-wannabes train and practice and ultimately challenge each other to a fatal face-off to win the mantle of temporary immortality and power. The reporter (who has mysteriously disappeared since the story was published) gained access to the mid- to upper-levels of what he referred to as an annual "Secret Santa Slaying" tournament, sharing horrific details which have boosted my own holiday cheer to new heights.
Here's the deal: The current Santa -- the "jolly old elf" who has stealthily and speedily delivered gifts to kazillions of boys and girls each December since time immemorial -- has held the job for only 38 years now. Insiders say he might lose the position (and his life) in just a few weeks; an up-and-comer from Toledo is looking to be his strongest threat, a real contender for the candy-cane throne. If "Mr. T" (as he's being called by odds makers) survives to the final rounds, the undriven snow is going to be stained with more blood than usual this year.
Heck of a deal, eh?
Every year, dreams of being the One True Santa Claus drive thousands upon thousands of men to don mock-ups of traditional white fur-lined, red costumes and bellow a few good-natured "ho-ho-hos" in preparation for Christmas eve. Most of these guys really have no idea what they're dabbling in -- it's a vague feeling, a subconscious urge, to be part of something bigger than themselves. Like when we're kids and we dress up in the blue uniform of a police officer or the white lab coat of a mad scientist or the face paint of a mime. Once we grow into adulthood, those pretend times seep away into the backs of our minds as we struggle with day-to-day responsibilities. But one dream gathers strength and refuses to die so easily. It might even be part of our genetic code. I'm not sure it can be explained.
The early stages are relatively safe for wannabes -- a cheap ball-tipped hat and a hang-over-the-ears fake beard serve their purpose. Most give it up right away, frightened by even a hint of power. They'll keep the hat (and maybe even let a spouse or loved one wear it occasionally), but go no further. And they'll likely survive another year to enjoy Christmas vicariously through other Santas' antics. Those who are seduced by Santa-ness take it a step further and rent a costume so they can play the part at a holiday office party or stand outside a department store and ask for charitable donations. They grow real beards and start practicing their Hos in front of a mirror and even binge on jelly in a misguided attempt to develop the properly round little belly. But if they don't strip out of the R&Ws ("reds and whites," as insiders call the outfit) within a few days, it's a done deal. They've made the commitment; they're lives are on the line.
My father fell into the first category, for which I will be eternally grateful. Dad might have dabbled in Santa wish-fulfillment activities a little (planting a few stocking-stuffers on The Eve is acceptable), but he never lost himself to the fantasy. I'm going to call him tonight and thank him for that decision.
But "Mr. T" and others like him crank it up way beyond the "Ask Your Parents" notch on the Easy-Bake Oven. They bribe mall managers for the opportunity to lift chubby kiddies to sit on their laps. They invest in expensive puncture- and moisture-resistant R&Ws. They swing those bells until their writst are swollen and numb. They buy voice lessons from James Earl Jones.
To what end? Combat. ... Lifting kids? Builds muscle mass. The costume isn't meant to protect Santa from pants-wetting brats; he's got to survive anything his opponent throws at him. "HO HO HO" is a roar of rage, not merriment. And ringing a bell? Think instead of swinging a sword.
As Christmas get closer, the Santas start disappearing. Daily, their numbers are lopped in half. A few, very few, somehow escape mortal combat by renouncing forever their challenge to the throne -- they will become mentors and chroniclers for new generations. But 99.9 percent of the others will die at the hands of another Santa.
The show-downs take place away from snoopers eyes, in empty parking car garages or on the roofs of delipadated factories. Katanas are favored weapons, although some Santas have perfected the use of others such as daggers or razor-edged yo-yos. The battle ends only when one Santa is left standing, holding the severed head of his opponent.
And that's the moment where the magic of Christmas comes to the fore once more! Because once a Santa is decapitated, all his memories and skills flood into the victor. The effect is said to be dazzling, with funky electric arcs and visions of sugar plums dancing around the survivor. It knocks him for a loop. He falls to his knees as tears soak his rosy-red cheeks. The experience is akin to the ultimate multiple orgasm (but without the need for hand puppets).
This takes place over and over again until the 11 p.m. on The Eve, when the current title-holder seeks out the final challenger. No records exist of these confrontations; they're best left up to the imagination.
The prize is simply the Best. Christmas. Gift. Ever. ... Or as much as "ever" can describe a one-year warranty before the winner has defend himself again. True to childhood mythology we all know so well, Santa gains access to: a sleigh pulled by magical reindeer that will take him anywhere in the world in the blink of an eye; slave laborers who can construct any technology he can imagine; the ability to slip unnoticed into any domicile; mind probes to determine who's been "naughty or nice;" and a harem of Mrs. Santas to fulfill his every sexual desire. He gets to use office in any way he wants for almost an entire year (the week between Christmas and New Years Day is set aside for healing), no questions asked. And if he can survive repeated attempts on his life, the One True Santa Claus can, theoretically, live forever.
What a wonderful story, full of holiday cheer and hope! I feel like a kid again.
(credit/copyright: B.Brus)
Death. Even decapitation.
An underground news source recently revealed the true spirit of Christmas and how thousands of Santa-wannabes train and practice and ultimately challenge each other to a fatal face-off to win the mantle of temporary immortality and power. The reporter (who has mysteriously disappeared since the story was published) gained access to the mid- to upper-levels of what he referred to as an annual "Secret Santa Slaying" tournament, sharing horrific details which have boosted my own holiday cheer to new heights.
Here's the deal: The current Santa -- the "jolly old elf" who has stealthily and speedily delivered gifts to kazillions of boys and girls each December since time immemorial -- has held the job for only 38 years now. Insiders say he might lose the position (and his life) in just a few weeks; an up-and-comer from Toledo is looking to be his strongest threat, a real contender for the candy-cane throne. If "Mr. T" (as he's being called by odds makers) survives to the final rounds, the undriven snow is going to be stained with more blood than usual this year.
Heck of a deal, eh?
Every year, dreams of being the One True Santa Claus drive thousands upon thousands of men to don mock-ups of traditional white fur-lined, red costumes and bellow a few good-natured "ho-ho-hos" in preparation for Christmas eve. Most of these guys really have no idea what they're dabbling in -- it's a vague feeling, a subconscious urge, to be part of something bigger than themselves. Like when we're kids and we dress up in the blue uniform of a police officer or the white lab coat of a mad scientist or the face paint of a mime. Once we grow into adulthood, those pretend times seep away into the backs of our minds as we struggle with day-to-day responsibilities. But one dream gathers strength and refuses to die so easily. It might even be part of our genetic code. I'm not sure it can be explained.
The early stages are relatively safe for wannabes -- a cheap ball-tipped hat and a hang-over-the-ears fake beard serve their purpose. Most give it up right away, frightened by even a hint of power. They'll keep the hat (and maybe even let a spouse or loved one wear it occasionally), but go no further. And they'll likely survive another year to enjoy Christmas vicariously through other Santas' antics. Those who are seduced by Santa-ness take it a step further and rent a costume so they can play the part at a holiday office party or stand outside a department store and ask for charitable donations. They grow real beards and start practicing their Hos in front of a mirror and even binge on jelly in a misguided attempt to develop the properly round little belly. But if they don't strip out of the R&Ws ("reds and whites," as insiders call the outfit) within a few days, it's a done deal. They've made the commitment; they're lives are on the line.
My father fell into the first category, for which I will be eternally grateful. Dad might have dabbled in Santa wish-fulfillment activities a little (planting a few stocking-stuffers on The Eve is acceptable), but he never lost himself to the fantasy. I'm going to call him tonight and thank him for that decision.
But "Mr. T" and others like him crank it up way beyond the "Ask Your Parents" notch on the Easy-Bake Oven. They bribe mall managers for the opportunity to lift chubby kiddies to sit on their laps. They invest in expensive puncture- and moisture-resistant R&Ws. They swing those bells until their writst are swollen and numb. They buy voice lessons from James Earl Jones.
To what end? Combat. ... Lifting kids? Builds muscle mass. The costume isn't meant to protect Santa from pants-wetting brats; he's got to survive anything his opponent throws at him. "HO HO HO" is a roar of rage, not merriment. And ringing a bell? Think instead of swinging a sword.
As Christmas get closer, the Santas start disappearing. Daily, their numbers are lopped in half. A few, very few, somehow escape mortal combat by renouncing forever their challenge to the throne -- they will become mentors and chroniclers for new generations. But 99.9 percent of the others will die at the hands of another Santa.
The show-downs take place away from snoopers eyes, in empty parking car garages or on the roofs of delipadated factories. Katanas are favored weapons, although some Santas have perfected the use of others such as daggers or razor-edged yo-yos. The battle ends only when one Santa is left standing, holding the severed head of his opponent.
And that's the moment where the magic of Christmas comes to the fore once more! Because once a Santa is decapitated, all his memories and skills flood into the victor. The effect is said to be dazzling, with funky electric arcs and visions of sugar plums dancing around the survivor. It knocks him for a loop. He falls to his knees as tears soak his rosy-red cheeks. The experience is akin to the ultimate multiple orgasm (but without the need for hand puppets).
This takes place over and over again until the 11 p.m. on The Eve, when the current title-holder seeks out the final challenger. No records exist of these confrontations; they're best left up to the imagination.
The prize is simply the Best. Christmas. Gift. Ever. ... Or as much as "ever" can describe a one-year warranty before the winner has defend himself again. True to childhood mythology we all know so well, Santa gains access to: a sleigh pulled by magical reindeer that will take him anywhere in the world in the blink of an eye; slave laborers who can construct any technology he can imagine; the ability to slip unnoticed into any domicile; mind probes to determine who's been "naughty or nice;" and a harem of Mrs. Santas to fulfill his every sexual desire. He gets to use office in any way he wants for almost an entire year (the week between Christmas and New Years Day is set aside for healing), no questions asked. And if he can survive repeated attempts on his life, the One True Santa Claus can, theoretically, live forever.
What a wonderful story, full of holiday cheer and hope! I feel like a kid again.
(credit/copyright: B.Brus)
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