In the interest of fairness and possibly correcting the record, this week I have given my column space over to Santa Claus, who writes:
'Twas the night before Christmas, absolutely it twas. That much is twuthful. I will concede that point to Mr. Clement Clarke Moore – the time frame of our encounter – and Christmas Eve is a busy night for me, so you must try to forgive me if I am somewhat twesty. Maybe some of you know what seasonal work is like. Anyway, 'twas the night before Christmas and there I was, doing my rounds, delivering toys to the children of the world and I get to this one house and immediately, I get a bad feeling.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care. He was right about that too. They were hung with a little too much care, if you know what I mean. It was all a bit Martha Stewart to my eye. Those stockings were there in a tidy row, lined up perfectly symmetrically, and a velvet plaid bow decorated the top of each one. Sprigs of holly and a spray-painted pinecone had been tucked into all of them.
My feeling was that unless this family had birthed stylists for House Beautiful, this was not the work of a child. Later I came to wonder if those stockings were hung by the chimney with care largely because it's tough to find a good rhyme for "dishevelled."
There were undoubtedly hopes that "St. Nicholas" (like the pressure's not great enough) soon would be there, but there are "hopes" you'll run into someone, and then there's "stalking." This guy was waiting for me and his ridiculous cover story that "out on the lawn there arose such a clatter that he sprang from his bed to see what was the…" – wait for it – "matter" should tip you off.
My reindeer are a highly professional outfit. They don't "clatter." I am sure many of you have found my toys on Christmas morning and did you ever hear this sleep-shattering clatter he's going on about? No.
If Clement had to lie, he could have gone with "I got up in the night to pee" and left my sleek sleigh team out of it. Lots of things rhyme with "pee," Clement.
My first thought when I saw the guy out of the corner of my eye that fateful evening was, "Look, dude, this would be so much less awkward if we both just pretend you're still asleep," but that is not what happened.
Now, Mr. "I in my Cap"'s version of what went down that night has been told in many formats – there's been a television special, multiple book versions, children recite that tale in school auditoriums every year.
Little children stand there, adorable rows of them, and try not to giggle when they say, "The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow."
"Breast," that guy wrote. Those children should laugh and internalize this as a dire life warning; up at the North Pole we know this "breasts of the snow" thing is just the kind of thinking a man gets into when he calls his wife "Mama" and she wears a kerchief to bed.
But sure, take Mr. Snow Boobs' word as gospel when he claims when I laughed (believe me I was not laughing, not once, that whole, long night), my "round belly" shook like "a bowl full of…" – wait for it – "jelly."
Take his word on everything. Don't worry about me. Don't worry about the fact that Mrs. Claus, while she is a very forgiving woman, does have her causes. It doesn't help my case when it comes up every single year, over and over – in a Christmas classic, no less – that I was smoking my pipe. She doesn't start wearing a kerchief to bed about it or anything, but let's just say things are less than warm at the North Pole for the first two weeks in January.
I would just like to point out that though A Visit from St. Nicholas first appeared in a newspaper in 1823 and even though it was years before the writer allowed his name to go on it – so the story was entirely anonymously sourced – not one person from the media has ever tried to reach me for comment: For the record, I was just chewing on the pipe.
Also, while I've got this space, there is no list. All children are nice and naughty. They're children, for heaven's sake, and I'm not tracking them, nor am I asking their friends or parents to rat them out to me; the name's Santa Claus, not Stazi Claus.
I hate that song, Santa Claus Is Coming to Town…. It's so ominous: "He's making a list, he's checking it twice…" Obsessive Compulsive Claus. Or like I'm looking to cut kids at Christmas.
"You better not cry…" because some kind of creepy Stephen King entity is "coming to town," all the towns. There is no escape.
"He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work," wrote Mr. "Long Winter's Nap," as I like to think of he who, by the way, had a serious (loud) rodent-infestation problem.
Yes, yes, I did do just that, spoke not a word, went straight to my work, and that should have been your first clue. Your second clue being that I work alone, but for my trusty (very quiet) reindeer, and I do this work in the dead of night.
That Clement guy just did not shut up. "What do you feed the reindeer?" "What is a sugar plum, anyway?" "What's your position on gendered rag dolls?" And he would not let me leave.
I swear to you, two hours later I was eyeing the chimney, yawning loudly, chewing on a painted pinecone and saying "Oh, really? You're writing a poem? No, no, I don't want to read your poem."
I'm Santa Claus, not a fat, jolly MFA professor.
Finally I made a break for it. I rose up that chimney of his like the house was on fire. You may have read about it: "But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 'Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!'" and all I can say is, "Sure, buddy, if that's what you heard …"
But to all of you I say – even the very naughtiest of you – I still love this job. Merry Christmas.