A recent episode of Parks and Recreation, which is now the greatest comedy on television since Community got techni-canceled a few weeks ago, featured Ron Swanson asking his secretary, April, about how invasive computers were.
For no rational reason whatsoever, it got me thinking about Santa Claus. Because, in a lot of ways, that’s how my mind works. I’m a pop-culture rolodex, after all. It dawned on me, as I thought about that fat white dude’s hearty laugh, sunny disposition, and elven slave-labor force, that I don’t feel comfortable knowing that he actually knows precisely where I live, all the time. I could move anywhere in the world with enough Christmas spirit, and Santa would still know where I live. He’s like a fat, festive smartphone but I can’t play Words with Friends on him.
To me, that’s just absurdly unpleasant. Now, the more reasonable among you may say, “Hey, Rujabes, you’re a jive turkey. Santa only finds you to give you presents.” To that, I may have you know that Santa is bound to snap one day. In fact, he’s several centuries overdue. Kids are much more difficult to please lately, for one. Back in the day, kids used to ask for wagons and hoops and sticks with which to roll the hoops along.
Nowadays, seven year-olds want iPads so they can play Angry Birds and…I don’t know, check…imaginary stock quotes? Just what the hell do children do with high-end technology anyway? Santa can’t cope with that kind of stress. He’s far too out of shape, his home is too cold, and he’s getting too old for this shit. And unlike Batman, he doesn’t even have a peppy young invalid to help him out. He has no Robin. He doesn’t even have a Kelly Rowland. That much pressure…if he messes up, kids will have no one else to thank more than their parents for all the free stuff they get. I certainly can’t imagine he gets paid either…I mean, who would? Jesus?
And of course, because Santa receives no income, since he’s so ludicrously old that his actual image is public property and companies don’t need to pay him royalty, that means the happy-go-lucky elves are basically slaves. There’s no reasonable way they could accomplish hundreds of millions of toy orders in a night, so it’s only realistic that they work all year, meeting a daily quota until Christmas, and sit in their small, comically-undersized elf huts nightly, shivering against the cold, while Santa gets literally all the credit. Santa would fit in well on a Southern plantation a few hundred years ago, is what I’m trying to say. But all of that is irrelevant.
Nothing more festive than indentured servitude and Will Ferrell
The combination of stress to meet a quota and the fact that kids are asking for increasingly more ridiculous things will drive the man to a holiday breaking point one year. And my point is, when that happens, how terrifying would it be when he’s inside your home? Near your family. And your XBOX? The following are a couple simple ways to take down a murderous St. Nick, if the need arises. Please don’t accidentally murder someone simply dressed as Santa, although I guess there’s no really way to tell until he’s dead…Use your best discretion, I guess. To quote The Simpson‘s Chief Wiggum, “…once a man is in your home, anything you do to him is nice and legal…[but] it doesn’t work if you invite him.” And literally, no one ever invites Santa. Oh, and one last thing…”Santa” is an anagram for “Satan”.
Spikes in the Chimney
One of Santa’s traditional means of entering your home and reverse-burgling you is to shimmy down your chimney like he’s listening to ODB.
My favorite Christmas song
You can easily prevent this by creating a stylish spike pit hidden amidst the logs of your fireplace. Spikes, of course, are simple to make using pieces of wood and something sharp, however, since there’s less and less nature left in the world these days, you can also use several sharpened candy canes arranged in a festive pattern. As anyone can tell you, candy canes are stupidly sharp after your mouth has its way with them. Boy, will Kris Kringle (awful lot of aliases for an innocent man, huh?) sure be shocked to slide down your chimney with a murderous glint in his eye, only to be greeted by candy cane retribution. Give Murder Claus the gift of an ass that reminds you fondly of swiss cheese. I suppose you could also just keep the fire burning throughout the night, but that’s bad for the environment.
Santa would be probably kinda annoyed at the spike pit, assuming he survived, so next up is striking at his stomach. The Jolly Fat Man is lactose intolerant. It’s a fact*. He’s sickened each time he even sees cookies and milk together. He, like so many of us, has absolutely no idea when this tradition started, or for what purpose. It’s not really even generosity. Think about the principle here: the man has to fly around the globe pulled by exhausted animals, giving you free stuff and leaving before you can thank him, and the only thing you can offer him are cheap sweets and milk? If he passes out from exhaustion, at the absurd speed he must be going to met his quota, his sleigh will crash with the impact of a small comet. It’ll be like a Roland Emmerich movie in the middle of a residential area. By not feeding Santa properly, the terrorists win. I mean, is this the forties? At least make him a sandwich. Hell, leave the dude Arby’s. It’s cheap and awful and he’s not picky. He probably still listens to Creed.
But I digress. Cookies are still pretty great, and even a snapped St. Nick would take a breather from his annual home invasion to eat them, probably hating himself and weeping softly as he realizes that Weight Watchers doesn’t work if you binge like a bastard once a year. He’ll never suspect the rat poison you cunningly sprinkled them with before you went to bed. You’ll certainly have quite a surprise under the Christmas tree the next morning. If the crazed merrymaker lives still after all that, the next technique should be the end of him.
Leave a Gift-wrapped, Rabid Possum-in-a-Box Next to the Poisoned Cookies
I’ve always been a fan of irony. And in case the poisoned cookies are unsuccessful, probably because Santa had prepared for such a possibility by building up immunity to rat poison because there’s like nothing else to do the rest of year, just imagine how touched the crazed, murderous Santa would be to finally get a present for himself that isn’t crappy, typo-ridden letters from kids…only to open the lid and see a live, psychotic possum with rage in its heart and rabies on its gums.
Now, this one is admittedly a bit complicated to pull off. Finding a possum is tricky enough, requiring bait, patience, and extremely thick gloves. Finding a possum with rabies requires all that, and a kind of “rabies sixth-sense”. You have to be like Haley Joel Osment in that movie, but you see rabies-infected possums everywhere, and not nearly as many dead people. Actually, if you live anywhere where rabies-infected possums are commonplace you probably really do see dead people everywhere, and M. Night Shyamalan owes you money. What I’m saying is, it might be a good idea to start kind of early. If Santa, the bastion of season’s greetings he is, hasn’t died yet, the next step cannot fail. EVER. It is the most drastic thing someone can do to a fictional, suddenly psychotic, murdering metaphor for altruism.
Lure Santa into your Panic Room, Trap Him Inside, and Blast Chacarron Macarron
I’m assuming if you’re white, Republican, against all odds don’t own a gun, are reading this off Internet Explorer, live in relatively crime-free suburbs, and saw that one movie that one time, you probably own a panic room.
This is Chacarron Macarron. Imagine being trapped in a room listening to this for hours.
You’re very welcome. Santa won’t stand a chance.