SANTA
      W.
      CLAUS
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      BRAD
      W.
      DEIGHAN
     
    
   
   
    
     
      The
      newly
      elected
      Santa
      Claus
      circles
      the
      room
      with
     
     
      stubble
      viciously
      protruding
      from
      his
      overweight
      face.
      Dead,
     
     
      uncaring
      eyes
      of
      cardboard
      only
      half-seen
      due
      to
      the
      thick
     
     
      heavy
      lids
      slinking
      down
      to
      cover
      the
      only
      existing
      signs
      of
     
     
      intelligent
      life.
      Antique
      white
      hair
      in
      disarray
      with
      brain-
     
     
      washed
      clumps
      holding
      tight
      to
      the
      disease
      infested
      scalp
      that
     
     
      covers
      the
      disease
      infected
      brain.
      Other
      forms
      of
      hair,
      some-
     
     
      how
      unmatted
      and
      clean,
      have
      quickly
      (“smack,
      smack,
     
     
      smack!”’)
      and
      disgustedly
      pulled
      (“smack,
      smack,
      smack!”’)
     
     
      themselves
      away
      seeking
      fresh
      air,
      something
      that
      has
      come
     
     
      (“smack,
      smack,
      smack!’)
      to
      an
      end
      since
      this
      man’s
      new
     
     
      rule.
      A
      great
      bushy
      not-so-white
      beard
      shoots
      (“smack,
     
     
      smack,
      smack!”’)out
      from
      this
      monster’s
      firm
      jaw,
      caked
      with
     
     
      old,
      sour
      milk
      (“smack,
      smack,
      smack!”)
      and
      stinking,
      rot-
     
     
      ting,
      cookies.
      He
      must
      of
      course,
      live
      up
      to
      the
      standards
      his
     
     
      father,
      a
      former
      Santa
      Claus,
      and
      make
      daddy
      proud.
     
    

    
     
      The
      neck.
      A
      neck
      so
      swollen
      and
      proud
      it
      seems
      to
     
     
      have
      grown
      itself
      out
      of
      existence,
      a
      meager
      chest
      made
      up
      of
     
     
      extra
      skin
      and
      long
      not-so-white
      curly
      hairs,
      the
      kind
      you
      see
     
     
      on
      every
      half-way
      slob.
      A
      classic
      wife-beater
      stained
      beyond
     
     
      colour,
      yellowed
      from
      sweat
      and
      nausea,
      polluted
      from
      cor-
     
     
      porate
      frozen
      foods
      greasy
      run-off,
      and
      any
      other
      shit
      that
     
     
      may
      come
      out
      of
      his
      mouth.
      As
      we
      go
      lower,
      a
      pair
      of
      yellow
     
     
      stained
      underwear,
      still
      wet
      from
      the
      repeat
      releasing
     
     
      (“smack,
      smack,
      smack!”
      )of
      thick
      yellow
      urine,
      highly
      coag-
     
     
      ulated
      with
      infection
      and
      disease,
      holds
      his
      shrivelled
      little
     
     
      rocks
      tight
      against
      the
      frightening
      weight
      of
      the
      rest
      of
      his
     
     
      body.
      Fat,
      unexorcised
      legs
      protrude
      from
      the
      ample
      body,
     
     
      sticky
      from
      the
      light
      spray
      of
      missile-launched
      semen,
     
     
      (“smack,
      smack,
      smack!”)
      which,
      by
      chance,
      have
      landed
      on
     
     
      many
      a
      rug
      or
      Afghan.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      ”
     
    
   
   
    
     
      christmas
      ...
      (“smack,
      smack,
      smack!”)
     
     
      “Juuuust
      liiike
      the
      oonnes
      I
      used
      to
      know...
      (“smack,
     
     
      smack,
      smack!”’)
     
     
      “
      ...
      But
      nooooww
      I’m
      old
      annnnnd
      I’m
      graaayyy,
     
     
      and
      I
      eeeaaat
      viaaaagra
      everydaaaayyyy!
      (“smack,
      smack,
     
     
      smack!”).”
     
    
   
   
    
     
      As
      these
      words
      are
      launched,
      other
      Afghans
      are
     
     
      destroyed
      and
      a
      great
      golden
      copulation
      is
      seen
      falling
      from
     
     
      the
      sky,
      colliding
      with
      and
      blasting
      all
      with
      a
      thick
      blanket
     
     
      that
      will
      create
      huge
      responses
      from
      the
      general
      populace.
      —
     
    

    
     
      A
      400z
      of
      whisky
      plugs
      into
      his
      mouth,
      this
      will
      keep
     
     
      him
      warm
      while
      he’s
      working,
      and
      it
      will
      also
      make
      up
      for
     
     
      the
      loss
      of
      some
      of
      his
      reindeer
      by
      not
      only
      dulling
      his
      senses,
     
     
      but
      by
      giving
      him
      a
      bright
      shining
      red
      nose
      to
      lead
      the
      way
      in
     
     
      the
      dark,
      not
      to
      mention
      a
      good
      reason
      to
      lead
      the
      way
      him-
     
     
      self.
      (Rudolph
      had
      an
      unfortunate
      accident
      just
      before
      lunch-
     
     
      time
      while
      dear
      old
      Santa
      was
      drinking).
      Santa
      then
      throws.
     
     
      himself
      into
      his
      television
      throne
      and
      extends
      a
      long
      sickly
     
     
      arm
      to
      the
      floor,
      and
      a
      gnarled,
      twisted
      hand
      resembling
      some
     
     
      sort
      of
      evil
      water-slide
      spouting
      septic
      fluids,
      opens
      up
      to
     
     
      clasp
      a
      large
      round
      chunk
      of
      half-cooked
      flesh
      that
      will
      also
     
     
      help
      fuel
      his
      great
      journey.
     
    

    
     
      A
      loud,
      ignorant
      “Ho,
      ho,
      ho!,”
      and
      a
      sinister
      and
      sar-
     
     
      castic
      “Merry
      Christmas”
      is
      heard
      just
      before
      a
      brow-beaten,
     
     
      dominated
      women
      dressed
      completely
      in
      red
      and
      white
      runs
     
     
      into
      the
      room.
     
    

    
     
      “Yes
      master?
      You
      called?
      You
      rang?
      I’m
      here,
      what
      do
     
     
      you
      need?
      Can
      I
      help
      you?
      I'll
      do
      anything,
      just
      let
      me
      know,
     
     
      please,
      I
      agree
      with
      whatever
      you
      say,
      you’re
      big
      and
      strong
     
     
      and
      so
      I
      must
      agree
      to
      help
      you!
      Just
      tell
      me
      please!!”
      she
     
     
      cries.
     
    

    
     
      “More
      booze
      now
      woman,
      can’t
      you
      see
      I
      need
      more
     
     
      booze
      to
      help
      me...
      send
      my
      gifts
      to
      the
      Afghans,
      and
      to
      make
     
     
      my
      head
      bigger
      when
      I’m
      through!
      How
      can
      I
      swallow
      my
     
     
      viagra
      without
      a
      drink?!”
     
    

    
     
      With
      that,
      and
      a
      bitch
      slap,
      Mrs.
      I-don’t-want-a-
     
     
      Claus-in-the-Canadian-version-of-the-more-power-to-
     
     
      authorities-bill
      leaves
      the
      room
      and
      brings
      back
      Santa
      his
     
     
      booze.
      No
      thank
      you,
      no
      acknowledgment
      of
      the
      help,
      no
     
     
      nothing.
      :
     
    

    
     
      “Oh
      well,”
      she
      thinks,
      “it’s
      just
      an
      accident,
      everyone
     
     
      makes
      mistakes,
      even
      Mr.
      Claus.”
     
    

    
     
      And
      so
      she
      leaves
      and
      awaits
      for
      her
      next
      call.
     
    

    
     
      Ho.
      Ho.
      Ho.