Santa's Christmas Diary 2008

The kid has been sitting on my lap for almost 5 minutes. He hasn't uttered a word. His parents are standing behind the velvet rope encouraging him to "tell Santy" what he wants for Christmas. The kid just stares at me motionless. Behind his dead eyes all I can see is the greed and the corruption that has become of this holiday. I whisper into his ear that if he ever opens another present again that I'm going to climb down his chimney and beat the merry shit out of him so hard that his soul will come oozing out him like pus from a cyst. He begins to cry and his parents take him away. He took my threat fairly well for a child of only 3 years. My suicidal depression thickens.

Welcome to the void that is St. Nick little one.

A few weeks before Christmas, every year I am forced by the elder god's to make a single appearance in one mall in Canada to listen to the needs of my people. The children. I pose as that of a simple mall Santa and to do this all I have to due is rub dog food into my beard, spray myself sparingly with the scent of vaginal lubricant and lose more hope than I normally possess (if that is at all possible). I even get paid the same hourly wage of $9.75 for my time, which will go immediately the first prostitute I find that doesn't carry any visible lesions. Shemale or no. For this day has weighed heavy on my soul and any warm bodied affection that I can receive at this point shall be most welcome. Santa just wants to drink someone else's fluids. Is that so wrong?

Every year becomes more dreary than the last. The amount of spoilage and hedonism that modern children are exposed to would make Caligula himself blush with shame. They come lining up from around the block to not so much tell Santa what they want but rather command it. Demanding tiny robotic trinkets that play music at a fingers touch, dolls of a sultry young tulip named Hannah Montana and something involving an Italian-American immigrant plunging his way through the septic system of a tortoise infested kingdom. For play only on "Nine-Ten-Does". I have no idea what this cryptic speech insinuates. Only one thing is for sure. I have woken up to a horrible future and I want out.

Lose Me, Hate me, Smash Me, Erase Me - Trent Reznor

The next dwarf to parade their white northly-american ass in my face comes in the form of a little girl, no more than 8 years, with salon styled curls. She plops on my lap without consent and begins to prattle on about all the gifts she wants to receive and undoubtably will receive.

In the midst of her high pitched vibrating I notice something horrific. The erection in my jolly red pants is growing. Dear Christ! Has all my hatred and self loathing finally turned into uncontrollable sexual viciousness? Can this be happening again? This festive lolita has incited a most terrible lust in me. A lust to destroy, maim and rape all that is innocent and good. To put onto others all the pain and the isolation that I feel all year round in my icy fortress. At this very moment I vomit nearly three litres worth of bile and figgie pudding into the little angel's mouth. She tries to scream but instead it comes out a gurgling mess of fig bits and fear. I must flee. I must get as far away from this place as I can. I throw the little jezebel into the display case of a nearby perfume store and waddle run as fast as I can into the nearest washroom. I hear the sound of broken perfume bottles and shattered childhood fantasies behind me. The mall begins to fill with the scent of a thousand perfumes wafting into one invisible beast. I call that beast "woman" but I digress.

I vomit what is left of my yellowy Christmas feast into a grimy men's room toilet. The patrons of the Men's room do nothing but gaze upon me in some sort of confused holiday stupor. I tell them all that if they don't mind their own business that, come Christmas Eve, I will slit their fucking nostrils with an Exacto Knife made of good cheer. They all hurriedly leave the washroom, till the only one remaining is the mall manager Mr. Densley. He begins to berate me about my performance as this years Santa and that he will be docking me one hours wage for my actions. He then attempts to intimidate me into returning to work. But I have not lived 2000 years to be bullied by some prissy slack wearing bourgeoisie. I am the Clause, the all powerful demi-god that wears the family crest of a flying snake devouring a gorilla. He clearly has never felt the Yuletide wrath of St. Nicholas before, but will soon taste the bitter fruit of that angry tree. I strike him with a beam of blue snowflaked riddled magic causing him to convulse and moan on the floor. From this day forth he will forever keep Christmas in his heart and be loving and charitable towards his fellow man. Oh Clause, you truly are one cruel Cringle.

I am the black sheath. I am the dark bearer.

Mr. Densley staggers out of the washroom to spread his newfound joy and good will to all. The fool. He knows nothing of the sting of immortality. The constant years of nothingness and pain without end. The unending servitude to a holiday without end. I should never have made love to that dreaded witch queen those 2000 years ago. She would never have then enslaved me to the Christ child, who forces me to forever give most generously to the sickest and most depraved of all beings on this planet. The Children. Well, Christ child, you've made quite the fool of me for lo, these many years. But I say no more.

I pull the single-action .45 ACP semi-automatic pistol out of my boot. An early christmas present to Mrs. Clause that I was going to unload into her forehead come Christmas Eve but now it appears that I will be indulging in this gift and not her. I pity the bitch. I take off all my clothes and stand in front of Men's room mirror. I'm now stark naked except for my boots. I inspect my genitals one last time and sigh to find how time has ravaged my once boyish scrotum. The clip inside the gun holds 12 bullets, but I'll need only one. I put the barrel into my mouth and bite down hard on the cold steel. Merry Christmas to all the little fucktard children of Earth! May the Devil eat your souls!

I pull the trigger.

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............Damn you Christ Child. Why won't you let me die?




Santa's Scrapbook of 2008