reprinted from Twisted Times #16
My name is Santa Claus and I’m an alcoholic.
I need a drink real bad, and I’m hornier than a whole herd of reindeer. Keep your kids away from me. Keep your dog away from me. Me and my friends (30 other loser Santas) just graduated from the Kris Kringle Institute, and now we’re gonna paint the town red. And white. And shove jingle bells up its ass! Merry fucking Christmas!
Anyone can be a Santa. All it takes is a red suit and a white beard and strangers will treat you like a rich uncle even when you’re stinking drunk and fondling their kids and saying things like “ever seen the north pole, sweetheart?” Oriental Trading Co. sells the full getup for $25, made in China out of 100% manmade materials by genuine political prisoners. One size fits all, and no, that ain’t no candy cane in my pocket!
Ever notice how Santa’s got a lot of aliases? Kris Kringle, Father Christmas, Saint Nick…if anyone else had that many aka’s, what would you think? Would you let your kid sit in his lap? Ever notice how if you just move one letter around, you can make “Santa” spell “Satan”? Ever seen St. Nick and Old Nick in the same place? Think about it.
We started our run at the Emporium department store. They’ve got a little kiddie playland on the roof, so we rode the escalators up three flights and packed the ferris wheel with Santas. Ho ho ho. Then we went to Union Square and had a Santa lynching. One of the Santas had been extra naughty, so we strung him up. Die, Santa! Then we packed a cable car with Santas and rode up Nob Hill, mooning the tourists.
Fat Santas, skinny Santas, punk Santas, hooker Santas. Aggressive panhandling Santas. “Give Santa a quarter, you cheap son of a bitch!” A gang of Santas kicking the shit out of a Santa who passed out in the street. Lip-locked Santas with their hands down each others’ pants. One Santa staggering out into traffic, drinking from a Pine Sol bottle. The cars honking! The people cheering! Look, mommy, it’s Santa Claus! Let’s take a picture!
One family of tourists just couldn’t get enough Santa pictures. Dad took a bunch, then got in the picture with all the Santas while Mom took one. Won’t they be surprised when the pictures come back and Dad’s got a bleach-blonde hooker Santa squatting in front of his crotch like she’s giving him head? Look, honey: Santa’s not wearing any underwear!
Santa went in the Fairmont Hotel and crashed a society dinner-dance. Thirty Santas rocking the dance floor and drinking people’s drinks. The geezers thought it was part of the entertainment, but hotel security wasn’t very happy. So Santa went to the Tonga Room, and the lounge combo on the little island in the middle of the pool played “Here Comes Santa Claus” while the goon squad gave Santa the heave-ho.
So Santa went to North Beach, where all the hip kids hang out, and took over a bar called Vesuvio. The kids were so hip they pretended not to notice Santa until he started passing joints around and doing carrier landings on the bar. Go, Santa, go! Chug-a-lug!
Next, Santa went to a strip club called the Lusty Lady. All the little booths were packed full of Santas slipping quarters in the little slots. One of the dancers, a redhead, started tugging her nipple rings and making wishes. “Hey Santa, I want a Hawaiian vacation. I been good, honest!” Well, Santa checked his list and guess what? She was naughty, so she got nothing. Ho ho ho! Better luck next year, you whore!
Santa was pretty wasted by this time, and pretty damned happy he’d hijacked that schoolbus from the Kris Kringle Institute. Santas screaming out the windows, throwing snowballs at the cars…okay, so it was really ice, not snow…ho, ho, ho!
Santa went South of Market and took over a club called the Paradise Lounge. Santa packed the mosh pit and danced hard, thrashing and sweating. A couple of Santas ripped their suits, and the Santa on crutches got his crutches knocked out from under him. Boom! See Santa go down. See Santa stage-dive! Santa passed out condoms and cigarettes at the bar, and tried to convince the naughtier kids that he could see them when they were sleeping.
The last thing Santa remembers is getting thrown out of Slim’s and going to the 20 Tank. Santa stole a pack of cigarettes some yuppie hole left on the bar, and then denied it to her face. Ho ho ho. Be nice to Santa or you’ll get a lump of coal in your eye!
Next year, Santa’s going barhopping again. Maybe he’ll let you buy him a drink, or maybe he’ll sell you some crack. Ho ho ho. But you better not cry. Oh no. And you better not shout if you know what’s good for you. Santa knows how to deal with whiney little snitches.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Written by Klaus Maginrannus