Satan's Claws

"Let's dance in blood and pretend it's snow." Southpark (1999)

You people just have no f*cking clue, do you?

You think Santa Claus is just some mythological lard butt that flies around in a holly jolly sleigh with eight imprisoned reindeer pumping the air furiously, their bleeding Rudolph the Red Nosed (because dripping blood from their hemorrhagic brainpans) noses pressed against the freezing December winds. It's all just folklore, ain't it? All in good fun, ain't it?

Well, let me tell you something: Santa's more than just a funny storybook toy master who lives in a cozy gingerbread cottage at the top of the world with chained-together elves to work for him sixteen, eighteen, twenty-hour shifts (do those little bastards even have a union?). Santa is the outward manifestation of an inward illness, a soul-sucking void within the soul that is as soulless as someone lacking heart...and soul. Do you get where the aitch I'm coming from, huh?

Santa. Rearrange those letters and tell me just what the HELL you get. (I use that word specifically and most appropriately here) I'll tell you:

You jiggle around the last three letters, and you get...

...SATAN.

That's right. Satan. The Author of Evil, the Prince of Perdition, The Potentate of PAIN.

And he wears a red suit and drives a slay, er, I mean a SLEIGH, and he delivers packages to "good little boys and girls" the world over. (Except in Gaza. They don't have anything flying over their houses except Israeli jets dropping bunker busters.)

Then he comes down the chimney, somehow squeezing his immense and slovenly bulk into a space not big enough for a small child, avoiding the flames below (he's already been chastened by the eternal fires of the Infernal Pit) and rustling boxes of presents, presents, presents for the snot-nosed little tots sleeping unwarily upstairs, all wrapped up snug in their communistic dreams of FREE STUFF. And just what the hell do you think is in those boxes? Well, just let me f*ckin' tell ya': It's a collection of CHARBROILED TOY-MAKING ELF KABOBS.

(You expected me to say severed heads, didn't you? Admit it, you sick f*cks.)

Once upon a time, there was an escaped mental patient who liked to dress as Santa for Christmas. And there was this British woman straight out of an old Amicus horror movie, who was listening to the radio when the announcement came that the escaped lunatic was in her area. And there was a comic book story about it by a man named Richard Corben, who was one of the best comic book story writer and artist guys ever was. And in his story and the story and maybe every other version of this story, the momma makes sure creepy, evil killer, Santa can't get in the house, only to find that her wide-awake, snot-nosed little brat has opened the door for Santa; and that brat has a big smile on her face, as Santa stands there, a knife in his hand, a hideous mockery of man and bestial, bloodlust singing in his ears like a cheap caroller's tuneless whiny carol.

And it was hack and slash for Christmas Evil, you betcha.

Up at the Pole, it's a real hole. The Elves are whipped furiously day and night by that sadistic bitch Mrs. Claws, also known as "Bloody Ilsa, the Yenta of Yuletide." You ever seen her in fishnets and a black leather corset? No wonder the elves are dropping like flies, going mad and throwing themselves off the upper levels of the toy factory. They had to install the same suicide nets as the Chicoms, just to keep from losing too many workers.

Santa is a communist. Mother just gives the toys away. What is that? Doesn't that contravene our competitive spirit of American Free Enterprise? Yeah, there's a reason that mother wears a RED suit, and it ain't got nothing to do with making him look slimmer.

Breaking and entering, human trafficking (and reindeer abuse), and teaching Maoism to five-year-olds are just a few of the sins of this flying fat man, but we can't go into them all, or we'd be here until next Christmas, and, brother, that's a year and a day away.

Santa, or should I say SATAN, rides the wind, the "Spirit of the Air," and then it's back to the North Pole, with a sackful of bad little boys and girls thrown over his shoulder. He's kidnapped them. Yeah. Gonna grind them into brat pate to feed to his elf slaves.

If you're out "walking through a winter wonderland," and you feel something hot and smelly plop on your head, don't worry, it's just reindeer shit. Don't say I didn't warn you. But, take note: that stuff doesn't smell like roses. Nor does it taste like egg nog.

Chow.

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