(Since Christmas is in the air, I thought it would be a good time for a redux of this article posted in my old blog. It is probably the only thing worth salvaging from that blog and in this season of sharing I feel it is important to share it with you.)
I hate Fancy-Santas. Unlike the archetypical Santa, the cliché with the bright red suit, white beard, and unassuming accessories like black boots and mittens, the Fancy-Santa tries to be more than the cliché. He drapes himself in ruffled velvets, expensive European leathers, peculiar hats, and often can be found carrying around armloads of weird things, like a wreath, or a swan, or a fucking bush.
But what’s worse is his attitude. The Fancy-Santa acts like he’s too good to be a normal Santa. While a normal Santa is jolly and friendly, the Fancy-Santa is aloof and acts like a complete prick. He likes to think he’s mysterious, tiptoeing through the woods, occasionally pausing to cast an abstract gaze into the northern sky. What mortal could dare to even fathom the grand majesties behind his ice-blue eyes and gaudy attire? What mortal could afford one of his bullshit dolls or figurines?
You’ve probably seen a Fancy-Santa slowly rotating on a QVC broadcast for about $900, while a spokeswoman gingerly strokes his velvet robes. She uses words like “beautiful” and “exquisite” and “precious”. To her, the Fancy-Santa resembles everything good and decent left in her life, a life looted of joy by a succession of boorish ex-husbands. There is nothing boorish about a Fancy-Santa though. He is thoughtful, dignified, elegant—the perfect gentleman. And the perfect catch for a lonely middle-aged woman, if she could just find him in the fucking woods first. (protip: set a bear trap)
Still don’t know what I’m talking about? You’re lucky, then. But I’m afraid your good fortune runs out here.
This is a Fancy-Santa.
Just look at that asshole. Who the fuck does he think he is? What is he so happy about?
Listen, you imposter. You are not Kris Kringle. Put down the wreath, take off your silly robes, and go home.
They are always decked out in an absurd plethora of ridiculous shit. He’s got a small crystal tree. You know, in case of an emergency. And some kind of weird lacey doily hanging from it. Also, a list for authenticity’s sake, because—ha ha!—he’s got to confirm which children are naughty or nice. As if he’s going to be giving children jack shit.
If you ever run into a Fancy-Santa like this, the only proper recourse is to splash your eggnog in his face and pull down his pants.
Next. Get a load of this horse’s ass.
There’s always a vague implication that Fancy-Santas are a kind of rugged proprietor of the wilderness. A great mystical outdoorsman, oozing communion with nature. He is a noble champion of the woods and all its critters.
He’s a glorified bum. Just because he lives in the woods doesn’t mean he owns them. And just because animals are stupid enough to sidle up to him doesn’t mean he won’t eat them and then use their pelts to craft another luxurious hooded robe. I imagine happening upon a Fancy-Santa skulking around in the woods is sort of like seeing Bigfoot. Except Bigfoot probably has the decency to at least dig a hole before he takes a shit on the ground.
This next one is a better example than the previous two, and I hate him all the more, because he takes himself more seriously.
It’s hard work being such a monumental bullshit artist like a Fancy-Santa. It helps to look grave and stern, as if you are burdened by crushing mountains of hidden wisdom. Secretly, the only wisdom he guards is an array of handy pointers on how to get fleas out of a beard.
I guess the unspoken hook to a Fancy-Santa is that they’re supposed to be magic. Like a fucking wizard. They really look like wizards, but with a Santa twist. I think the Fancy-Santa thing is really just a way for wizard freaks to get their jollies (yes, that was a Santa pun). But they can do so through the safety of mainstream Christmas orthodoxy. Similarly, the same middle-aged women who like wizards possibly like them because they remind them of Santa, the great paternal emblem, and perhaps hence, the “perfect man”. This perhaps further is the disturbing central pivot point for some weird fetish or visceral attraction programmed into the female mind set to erupt in middle age. The wizard/Santa allure is deep-rooted stuff, and expresses itself in many ways. I wonder if it explains in part the popularity of Harry Potter. Dumbledore was sort of like a Fancy-Santa. I wonder if J.K. Rowling collects Fancy-Santas. Of course, Dumbledore was proven to be gay, which on further reflection may be a critical part of the mythos. It makes these ideal mystical men unavailable, furthering the complex of unattainability. Come to think of it, now I’m sure all Fancy-Santas must be gay too. They are FANCY, after all. The rouge cheeks, the playful smirks. It’s all adding up. They’re a bunch of nomadic fags whisking through the snow.
But in reality, they aren’t even really all that magic. Because they’re stupid frauds. I mean, what can they really do that’s all that great? Maybe give you a sly wink, and when you turn around again, he’s gone. BIG FUCKING DEAL! He’s a self-absorbed jackass who would never use whatever lame powers he has to help anyone. He’s certainly not delivering presents. The real Santa doesn’t mess around. He’s got a whole army of slave labor devoted to making toys, and actually has the means to deliver them. A Fancy-Santa barely bothers with the pretense. He might get around to giving kids presents if all the children on the earth happened to live in the fucking woods with him, maybe in a two mile radius. But they don’t, they live in houses like normal people. Whenever a Fancy-Santa carries around toys, it is just for show. If you see him walking around with a teddy bear, I can guarantee you that in the near future, rather than give it to a youngster, he will burn it for warmth.
Then there are ones like this, which are doubly infuriating. This dude thinks he’s Gandalf the White. Jesus Christ, he’s so fucking pure, I bet every time he bends over, a flock of white doves flaps frantically out of his ass.
It’s passed off like he’s the Lord of Winter or some bullshit. If you ever see an idiot like this traipsing around, the proper thing to do is approach him from behind and push him into a pile of snow and then run away.
This one is riding a fucking bear. Go to hell, numbnuts!
Look at the absurd hat on this one. And what exactly does he think he’s going to do with that sled full of toys? Who’s he trying to kid? Even he has to feel too much shame in his reprehensible appearance to parade that sled around in public. Anyway, I doubt he could push that thing more than a mile through the woods before suffering from cardiac arrest.
Then, as if standard Fancy-Santa fare weren’t dreadful enough, there are these themed ones. This one is sort of hobo-themed. This wayward wintry bindlestiff gazes vacantly into the clouds as if wondering where it all went wrong.
The answer is of course the moment he decided to become a Fancy-Santa.
Surf’s up!!! There are few pleasures that compare to the experience of wringing sea water out of a puffy white beard.
This Fancy-Santa seriously needs to just go fuck off.
Even the Orient is getting in on the act! This Fancy-Santa is absolutely terrifying. I can’t tell whether he embodies the spirit of Christmas, or the malice of a dark Asian emperor. I’ve never seen a Santa, or any holiday figure, who I suspect would beat the shit out of me with one hand while he used the other to sip calmly from a bowl of soup.
That is all I have to say about Fancy-Santas for now. But there is a lot more to say on the subject, and when I uncover more of these vile and stomach-turning truths about these frauds you can be sure that I will post all the dirt here.
Maybe come Christmas morning the true Saint Nicholas will have left something to this effect beneath your tree.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
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