Santa’s bungalow was warm and cozy. By warm, it was loud and obnoxious from Santa’s thunderous snore. By cozy, it reeked to high heaven. Stink lines exuded from every possible orifice of St. Nick sleeping hard on the recliner. Surrounding the chair, three empty bottles of Wild Turkey, a fourth bottle one-third full clenched in his hand, resting on his enormous belly.
A blue miniature guitar made and purchased in Mexico. It was the size of a ukulele from Hawaii. I must confess; I was greatly underwhelmed. After five golden rings and twelve drummers drumming, this was, putting it mildly, a gyp.
I didn’t even know the 13th day of Christmas was a thing, but, apparently, it is.
In September 1897, Virginia O’Hanlon wrote the following letter:
Dear Editor,
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see in the Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O’Hanlon
In 1987, the letter found it’s way to the editor of Fangoria Magazine. This was his warm response.
If today is your birthday, cherish the day, for you are sharing your birthday with Jefferson Beauregard “Jeff” Sessions III, Rickey Henderson, Annie Lennox, Ricky Martin, Cab Calloway, Lemmy, Humphrey Bogart, Ryan Seacrest, Jimmy Buffett, and most importantly, Santa Claus.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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