You think I’ve come for you, you tiny tiny child, looking down at me from the stairwell like you’ve just seen the face of God. Surprise you tiny motherfucker, I am not God. Here I am, Santa Claus on this, Christmas Night. I will not eat your cookies and I will not have you sit on my lap! It is 3 in the morning and for Christ’s sake I have already been generous enough with my big red body today, not even in a hot way. You will sit and hear my story now, you tiny sticky child, because you should not have been awake and you’ve caught me in a ¡manic! moment.
Sit down now, you child, for tonight is about me. I will start with personal history. Christmas was invented by me, Santa Claus. I know Jesus from a long time ago but now he is dead now. We all know him from history and from religion. I call religion the opiate of the masses but no one likes to give Santa credit. For at least the past three years, I sit in my big chair every day except for one day where I must go do lots of things. You know what they are.
Before I started celebrating Christmas my life–and my wife–were fun. Happy wife happy life, they say, but Mrs. Claus is unhappy now that I start Christmas travelling. It has taken a toll on our marriage and our sex life. You cannot spell “sex life” without “elf.” Santa lives a very unhappy life now. I invented jolly but it is not mine anymore. Keep listening, sticky tiny child. It is still not about you.
“What is something no one knows about Santa?” you ask. Why ask me this? I am that I am. I will pick a better question for you to have asked. “How do you define religious experience?” is the good question to ask me. Religion…. It is complicated but not too complicated for me to understand. You will not understand but let me try to explain it now: it is like the opiate of the masses. No further questions.
We used to have fun, Mrs. Claus and I. I forget her first name, but only because I am Jewish. If I had to name myself something else I think I might choose “Ramona.” It is hard to be a man without a culture. People don’t think of me that way, but if anyone would put any thought into what they can do for me, not what I can do for them, they would understand. I’ve never sat in anyone’s lap before. I wonder how it feels, to have legs under your butt. If I got to sit on anyone’s lap I think I would choose my own since I’ve heard it is very good. But that is a Sisyphean task if I’ve ever heard of one.
Tonight is about me, not you. This is true. I inspire many and everyone loves me. But I am the king in the castle and though I have my queen, I feel a constant and grating loneliness. Because my marriage with Mrs. Claus was arranged by our parents, and since both sets of our parents are dead, we do not have anything to say. Every night we sit at opposite ends of our very long banquet table, overlooking the honey baked ham we use as a centerpiece. We did not tell anyone that the ham has gone bad, only because we have no one to tell.
They say the grass is always greener. This is true. I do not know how old I will live to be, but I do hope that death sinks her sweet sharp teeth into my fleshy belly soon. Mrs. Claus set a curfew for me, and if I do not make it back into our ice palace in time she will give me her ice look. Happy wife happy life, happy wife happy life. Now it is about you again. I have had my time and ate it too. Thank you for listening, my sticky sweet listener. Bonne chance!
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This is the best Rib of Brown I’ve read.