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Christmas has nearly arrived; they’re cutting down trees. I’m trying to
keep my happy holiday glow going, because, as my poet/anthropologist friend
Anne-Adele reminds us, “There are four stages in a man’s life: When he
believes in Santa Claus, when he doesn’t believe in Santa Claus, when he IS
Santa Claus, and when he looks like Santa Claus.” I’m thinking of a little
girl writing a letter to a newspaper a century ago for reassurance that
Santa Claus was real: “I am 8 years old.
Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, ‘If you
see it in The Sun, it’s so.’ Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa
Claus? Signed, Virginia O’Hanlon.”

I suspect there is something of 8-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon in all of
us. We want to be reassured. And we believe it if we see it in the
newspaper. And so, the 1897 New York Sun
editorial Francis P.
Church wrote in response to her letter is one of the most enduring, deeply
felt testaments to faith I have ever encountered.

“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus,” Church replied, in part. “He
exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know
that they abound and give your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how
dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as
dreary as if there were no Virginias. …”

Yet, nearing the millennium, one cannot help but notice certain seasonal
poignancies. The very institution of Santa
Claus
itself seems under assault by a
mega-barrage of cynicism. Clement C. Moore must be turning in his grave.
Dire canards are afoot that Santa is gay, a woman, or, even worse, a trade
unionist. Besides, there is the further heresy that Santa, anagrammatically
speaking, also spells Satan. Moreover, just as Jesus died for our sins,
evergreens, grown for annual slaughter, are blithely sacrificed en masse to
the Spirit of Christmas. Meanwhile, in the pastoral suburbs surrounding my
own bedlamic town of Philadelphia, a grown man was actually killed, KILLED,
by a deer, a buck in full point he had kept as a pet — something I intend
to investigate further in a future column, if the world doesn’t come to an
end beforehand.

This saddens me, all of it. The Satanic Santa speculations, the dead
trees, the shattered idealism, the docile deer run amok, the trampled
animal-tender, the end-times vibrations of jerkwater seasonal e-mail, like
“All I Want for Christmas is to Slap Martha Stewart.” The gender-bashing,
gender-bashing, gender-bashing. Dare I say this aloud? Let’s hear it for a
White Christmas, and no, that is not David Duke’s secret holiday code for
White Males, so please don’t come around complaining to me about my hidden
bias. I have no hidden biases. They are all very much on public display for
everyone to see, thank you very much.

The USA needs an exorcist, and quick.

Clearly dangerous revisionist elements are at work contaminating our
culture. This item, for example, purports to have been “found in the church
bulletin of Immanuel Lutheran Church, Atwater, Minn.” Yeah, right! “Do you
know what would have happened if it had been Three Wise Women instead of
Three Wise Men? They would have asked for directions, arrived on time,
helped deliver the baby, cleaned the stable and tidied up the place, made a
casserole, and brought practical gifts.”

Eeek!! Who cares? As my friend AngstWorld says, “Ah … another heart
warming installment, I see, of ‘let’s kick the surrogate oppressor.’”

What is this about? As a society, we must excise these insidious cultural
abominations. And soon. Or else I for one am not responsible for the dire
consequences. So, what follows is a sampling of Revisionist Santas: the Good, the Bad, the
Ugly.



“Santa is a Woman”
(From the Internet, submitted by StarChiro)

Santa Claus is a woman. Not to defy sacred myth, but he’s a she. Think
about it. Christmas is a big, organized, warm, fuzzy, nurturing, social
deal, and I have a tough time believing a guy could possibly pull it all
off! For starters, the vast majority of men don’t even think about selecting
gifts until Christmas Eve. Once at the mall, they always seem surprised to
find only Ronco products, socket wrench sets, and mood rings left on the
shelves. On this count alone, it’s convincing that Santa is a woman. Surely,
if he were a man, everyone in the universe would wake up Christmas morning
to find a rotating musical Chia Pet under the tree, still in the bag.

Another problem for a he-Santa would be getting there. First of all,
there would be no reindeer because they would all be dead, gutted and
strapped on to the rear bumper of the sleigh amid wide-eyed, desperate
claims that buck season had been extended. Blitzen’s rack would already be
on the way to the taxidermist. Even if the male Santa DID have reindeer,
he’d still have transportation problems because he would inevitably get lost
up there in the snow and clouds and then refuse to stop and ask for
directions.

Other reasons why Santa can’t possibly be a man:

Men can’t pack a bag.

Men would rather be dead than caught wearing red velvet.

Men would feel their masculinity is threatened … having to be seen with
all those elves.

Men don’t answer their mail.

Men would refuse to allow their physique to be described, even in jest,
as anything remotely resembling a “bowlful of jelly.”

Men aren’t interested in stockings unless somebody’s wearing them.

Having to do the Ho Ho Ho thing would seriously inhibit their ability to
pick up women.

Finally, being responsible for Christmas would require a commitment.

Let’s concede the fact that other mythical holiday characters are men:
Father Time shows up once a year unshaven and looking ominous. Definite guy.
Cupid flies around carrying weapons. Uncle Sam is a politician who likes to
point fingers. Any one of these individuals could pass the testosterone
screening test. But not St. Nick. Not a chance.



“Proof Santa is Still a Dude”
(By Douglas Rothschild of PenguinPutnam
Books)

Oh, all that piece “Santa is a Woman” has demonstrated is that Santa is
not a late 20th century American stereotype of maleness. Perhaps the author
might be more successful in her search for the best Christmas present by
attempting to convince the late 20th century American stereotype of maleness
she currently happens to be expecting gifts from, that an alternative view
of maleness might be viable.

Think about it. Christmas is a big, organized, warm, fuzzy, nurturing,
social deal? OK, when was Christmas organized? Does this mean like they have
Rockettes and a really big tree in Rockefeller Plaza? A man wasn’t capable
of that? And does Star live in Australia? For, though not often white, I’d
scarcely call Christmas warm up here, and nurturing — most people I know
have nightmares about family at this time of year — and if it were so
social, how come the suicide rate soars? (I.e., not warm, not fuzzy, not
nurturing, not social.)

The vast majority of men don’t even think about selecting gifts until
Christmas Eve? The vast majority: Are we not assuming that Santa is one? And
rather extraordinary at that? QED!

Once at the mall, they always seem surprised to find only Ronco products,
socket wrench sets, and mood rings left on the shelves? Once at the mall:
Are we not assuming that Santa has a WORKSHOP? QED!

There would be no reindeer because they would all be dead? Curiously, I
believe the term for raising domestic animals is “Animal HUSBANDRY” not
wifery. …

Even if the male Santa DID have reindeer, he’d still have transportation
problems because he would inevitably get lost up there in the snow and
clouds and then refuse to stop and ask for directions? Wrong on three
counts: First, Santa’s done this before (a lot — he’s not really going
anywhere new). Second, even if he hadn’t, since he is going
EVERYWHERE, he cannot get lost, he just
GOES. Third, perhaps Santa doesn’t believe in that stereotype.

Other reasons why Santa can’t possibly be a man:

Men can’t pack a bag? Simply not true.

Men would rather be dead than caught wearing red velvet. I live in NYC
and have seen otherwise. (Or look at Elvis and all those rhinestones)

Men would feel their masculinity is threatened … having to be seen with
all those elves? Technically, Santa is an elf.

Men don’t answer their mail? Neither does Santa … who’s ever gotten a
letter BACK? Or even EXPECTED to?

Men would refuse to allow their physique to be described, even in jest,
as anything remotely resembling a “bowlful of jelly?” Probably a man from
the 16th, 17th, 18th or 19th century. …

Having to do the Ho Ho Ho thing would seriously inhibit their ability to
pick up women? Isn’t he happily married? (Scroll down for more about that!)

Finally, being responsible for Christmas would require a commitment?
Seems like some particular man wouldn’t be a good substitute for Santa, why
is that not a surprise?

And, oh, I just want to go on record as saying, “It’s not that I don’t
believe that a woman could do the job of Santa Claus (and I believe that
Mrs. Claus does a lot more than she gets credit for), just that those
particular reasons why Santa must be a woman, are not soundly reasoned out.”

I don’t want to be misunderstood as against the entire idea that Santa
Claus was
female. … A stronger argument would be made from the name, Santa, as in
Santa Clara? Santa Barbara, had someone intended us to think of Santa Claus
as a man, would not his name be San Claus? As in San Diego? Or San
Francisco? Perhaps it is a misspelling of San Taclause?

Anyway, I like my new proof that Santa Claus is a woman — perhaps what
Clement Moore took to be a flowing white beard, was really a fluffy white
scarf?

I’m a poet, so not too worried about money, credit, or even real usage.
For me, I appreciate the thought.



“Santa Announces His new Contract from the Internet” (Also sent in by
Douglas Rothschild, who notes, “This just in, and it may explain some
things: First this confirms that Santa is a either a fairy or an elf — and
perhaps a bit effeminate — and sheds some light on StarChiro’s report that
Blitzen was at the taxidermist. …”)

A letter from Santa:

I regret to inform you that, effective immediately, I will no longer be
able to serve Southern United States on Christmas Eve. Due to the
overwhelming current population of the earth, my contract was renegotiated
by North American Fairies and Elves Local 209.

I now serve only certain areas of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin and
Michigan. As part of the new and better contract I also get longer breaks
for milk and cookies, so keep that in mind.

However, I’m certain your children will be in good hands with your local
replacement who happens to be my third cousin, Bubba Claus. His side of the
family is from the South Pole. He shares my goal of delivering toys to all
the good boys and girls; however, there are a few differences between us.

Differences such as:

  1. There is no danger of a Grinch stealing your presents from Bubba
    Claus. He has a gun rack on his sleigh and a bumper sticker that reads:
    “These toys insured by Smith and Wesson.”

  2. Instead of milk and cookies, Bubba Claus prefers that children leave
    an RC cola and pork rinds, or a moon pie, on the fireplace. And Bubba
    doesn’t smoke a pipe. He dips a little snuff though, so please have an empty
    spit cup handy.

  3. Bubba Claus’ sleigh is pulled by floppy-eared, flyin’ coon dogs
    instead of reindeer. I made the mistake of loaning him a couple of my
    reindeer one time, and Blitzen’s head now overlooks Bubba’s fireplace.

  4. You won’t hear “On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen …” when
    Bubba Claus arrives. Instead, you’ll hear, “On Earnhardt, on Wallace, on
    Martin and Labonte. On Rudd, on Jarrett, on Elliott and Petty.”

  5. “Ho, ho, ho!” has been replaced by “Yee Haw!” And you also are likely
    to hear Bubba’s elves respond, “I her’d dat!”

  6. As required by Southern highway laws, Bubba Claus’ sleigh does have a
    Yosemite Sam safety triangle on the back with the words “Back off.” The last
    I heard it also had other decorations on the sleigh back as well. One is a
    Ford or Chevy logo with lights that race through the letters and the other
    is a caricature of me, Santa Claus, giving a raspberry to the Tooth Fairy.

  7. The usual Christmas movie classics such as “Miracle on 34th Street”
    and “It’s a Wonderful Life” will not be shown in your negotiated viewing
    area. Instead, you’ll see “Boss Hogg Saves Christmas” and “Smokey and the
    Bandit IV” featuring Burt Reynolds as Bubba Claus and dozens of state patrol
    cars crashing into each other.

  8. Bubba Claus doesn’t wear a belt. If I were you, I’d make sure you, the
    wife, and the kids turn the other way when he bends over to put presents
    under the tree.

  9. And finally, lovely Christmas songs have been sung about me like
    “Rudolph The Red-nosed Reindeer” and Bing Crosby’s “Santa Claus Is Coming to
    Town.” This year songs about Bubba Claus will be played on all the AM radio
    stations in the South. Those song titles will be Mark Chesnutt’s “Bubba
    Claus Shot the Jukebox,” Cledus T. Judd’s “All I Want for Christmas Is My
    Woman and a Six-Pack,” Hank Williams Jr.’s “If you Don’t Like Bubba Claus,
    You Shove It,” and “Grandma Got Run’d Over by a Reindeer.”

Sincerely yours,

Santa Claus

Member of North American
Fairies and Elves Local 209



Stressed-out Santa (From the Internet, sent by BBS666)

One particular Christmas season a long time ago, Santa was getting ready
for his annual trip … but there were problems everywhere. Four of his
elves got sick, and the trainee elves did not produce the toys as fast as
the regular ones so Santa was beginning to feel the pressure of being behind
schedule. Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her mom was coming to visit. This
stressed Santa even more. When he went to harness the reindeer, he found
that three of them were about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and
were out, heaven knows where.

More stress.

Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards cracked and the
toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys. So, frustrated, Santa
went into the house for a cup of coffee and a shot of whiskey. When he went
to the cupboard, he discovered that the elves had hid the liquor and there
was nothing to drink. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the
coffeepot and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen
floor. He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw it
was made from. Just then the doorbell rang and Santa cussed on his way to
the door. He opened the door and there was a little angel with a great big
Christmas tree.

The angel said, very cheerfully, “Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn’t it just a
lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Isn’t it just a lovely tree?
Where would you like me to stick it?”

Thus began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas
tree.



As a gesture of solidarity with the Santa legend, here’s “Mrs. Santa
Claus’ Lament,” a piece I wrote as an emotionally florid teenager overly
empathic with the plight of the oppressed, nothing like the rather pleasant
detached person I have become as an adult. I’m no Camille Paglia, but
clearly, Santa’s a workaholic and Mrs. Claus is, at the least, an enabler if
not an outright codependent, addicted to an emotionally unavailable male
figure (much like her own father), with whom she is re-enacting her
not-sufficiently-submerged-enough Electra complex. Emboldened by the stellar
poetic efforts of fellow WND columnist and colleague Rip Rense, I share
these thoughts with you today. And may y’all find lotsa candy canes and IPOs
in your Christmas stockings.

“Mrs. Santa Claus’ Lament: My Chubby Hubby”

The fire’s ablaze in the fireplace,
The Yule Log’s burning bright;
It’s Christmas Eve, my hopes are high –
You’re coming home tonight.

At last, my months of waiting
So patiently for you
Tonight will be rewarded, but then,
Tomorrow will start anew.

As the night grows older,
My anticipation swells;
It’s midnight and you’ve showed no sign;
But hark! I hear
sleigh-
bells!

As always, down the chimney you slide,
(You never use the front door),
Collecting soot from smoke-charred bricks
As you thud noisily to the floor,

You haven’t changed a bit, I see:
You’re jolly as before –
I know that when you leave again
I’ll miss you even more.

So now you’re rich and famous,
But all that I derive:
An annual hour-long visit;
For a demanding career you strive.

Though we are married, I am just
Your wife on this one eve;
For you devote all other days
To toys — that’s my pet peeve.

Your short visit’s over all too soon;
It’s time to say goodbye.
My heart can’t bear another year,
But Santa, dear, I’ll try!

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