Santa's Slide

Dear Travis,

Well my old friend, we've nearly wrapped up another one. How's your behavior been this year? Will old St. Nick be in a jolly mood when he slides down your chute this winter? Or will you awaken to a stocking full of coal? I myself wouldn't mind. Price of coal is up, and practical gifts are en vogue this season. A last minute blitzkrieg of penitence is one way to go if you're not so inclined.

I already know what gifts I'll be receiving from the family this year, having bought and stashed them out in the shed myself for the little woman to wrap. A tractor battery and a bottle opener. Granted the bottle opener is made to look just like a Craftsman tool, so my sense of childlike wonder isn't completely dead. The only wild card of course is the fat man in red.

I feel that Santa is getting cynical in his old age. Guess that's what happens when you spend your days holed up in a snowed-in compound with no one to talk to but "elves". I can partly relate. Can you imagine that guy by the time December finally rolls around and he's got a case of cabin fever that would put Jack Torrance to shame? Nothing to do day in and day out but downing Cheese-Whiz and scotch and playing William Tell with the reindeer in his long johns.

Last Yule the bunker must have caught him on the tail end of his miraculous jaunt. Whether he was slap-happy with exhaustion or worn ragged from too many trucker's pep pills I'll never know. I was feigning sleep as I could feel him standing over me, whispering dirty jokes into my ear. His breath brought a tear to my eye, but I dared not move out of pure terror. A dead man couldn't have slept through his crude, giggling antics. He tripped over the rug as he was stealing away and put a fist through my closet door. He swore like a longshoreman.

After I was sure he was gone I looked under the tree. A menacing puddle beneath it reeked vaguely of urine and vomited cookies. Fighting nausea I picked up a partly crushed box wrapped in ragged comic pages. Inside was a collection of factory second blouses from The Fashion Bee. At first I figured there'd been a mix up, but everything was a perfect fit and my initials had been stitched hurriedly into each piece. I guess I'm obliged to be thankful. The poor, poor bastard. The War on Christmas is warranted.

Yours in Christ,
Eric