Christmas Shoe Bombs & Other Holiday Threats
By: Kyle Mclaughlin
Tags: Santa Claus, Satire, Holidays, Christmas, Terrorism

Alert the National Guard, Santa Claus is comin’ to town!

I refuse to lie to my kids about the true meaning of Christmas. When that awkward moment comes and they ask if Santa Claus is real, my dad and I (and any other relatives the government hasn’t rounded up yet) will tell them the truth: “Yes, Virginia, Santa Claus is very real… and very angry. And it’s our job to punish the unbelievers in his jolly name.”

You may scoff and say Santa was made up to sell sugar water, but you won’t be so nearly so prideful when the coal in your stocking is used to feed the flames of Hell while Santafarian martyrs are treated to 40 presents in Heaven. Good presents too. Like a Playstation Infinity.

My ex-wife, Cheryl, she thought I was kidding. I made the mistake of marrying her because she was naughty. Little did I realize just how naughty she was. (Or how ironically frigid sexually.)

It takes a true fool like Cheryl to doubt The Claus. He knows when and where you are sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good and which heathens to forsake. Yes, he’s a generous old elf, but he doesn’t have to be. When he sneaks into our homes each Christmas Eve we are at his mercy. Why, he could… put something in our ears or… kill us in our sleep, but he chooses to leave us gifts instead.

We owe him our undying devotion… and an annual human sacrifice.

No, I’m not some fanatic! Did Cheryl say that? A fanatic doesn’t win shared custody, does he, Cheryl? Ho ho ho, the answer is no. Not in most cases.

And fanatics rarely — if ever — have a plan. I ask you, would a fanatic take his kids to the mall each year, waiting for a sign? “Ask not what Santa can bring you,” I always tell them while we’re waiting in line, “but what you can bring Santa.” The mall emissaries usually say all they want is a hug or a kiss. Every religion has its problematic prophets…

My kids are always disappointed when another year passes without them having the chance to deck the halls with smoking wreckage, but I remind them to be patient. Santa will call on them in his own time. Until then, we must leave out milk and cookies in sacrament.

And just like the industrious little elves at the North Pole, my dad and I and the children and that guy from down the road who isn’t allowed to board an airplane spend each holiday season making “toys” for the bad little boys and girls on Wall Street and other centers of commercialism. Little shoes with silver bells on the end that go boom when they jingle, poison-flavored candy canes, and dirty bombs filled with glitter and glass… Memories we’ll cherish for some time to come!

Take it from me, friend, if you don’t teach your children to die in Santa’s name now, you’ll regret it later, when they expect you to bring them increasingly expensive gifts. Once a child loses their faith in Santa — often in college — no amount of elf blood will ever make them quite as pure in his eyes again. Indeed, it is easier for a man to assemble an entire Christmas Village on his roof than to regain the Kingdom of Kringle.

Of course, the world hates us for our beliefs. My ex-wife among them. I’ve heard it all: “Santafarianism is a parody religion.” “Does Santa have a watchlist? Because the government does.” “CPS is coming.” Yet, whether it’s because of moral fortitude or that time when a reindeer kicked me in the head, I refuse to deny The Claus. I’ll go to my grave — or prison — knowing that I gave my children the gift that lasts a lifetime: martyrdom.

So you may say there’s no such thing as Santa… but as for me and Grandpa, we believe.

Infidel.