The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

Yuletide yokels,

     I’ve been seeing this advent calendar around for the past month or two and the thing always brought me a chuckle, so I went out and bought the darn thing today before they were all sold out. I now own the only advent calendar I’ve ever had in my life. Why? The picture of course!

     This was a particular favorite of mine while I was drinking, and now that I’m straight, still remains a favorite. What is apparent in the picture is that Santa Claus is clearly drunk. Look at him; his face all red and puffy from alcohol consumption, his eyes bloodshot, his hastily-grabbed-and-worn gloves not color coordinated, a scowling look of tequila-drunk hostility on his face as he clutches at his swollen liver. Obviously, Santa was drinking from a bad bowl of fermented eggnog back in his workshop office before he left for his big nighttime trek. The fact that while he was in the sleigh he was swigging from the rum he keeps hidden from the missus under his seat doesn’t help matters any either. If it wasn’t for the Christmas tree, I’d suggest that Santa might have gone hopping down people’s chimneys in the middle of July again. That inebriated bastard.

     But here’s what really makes the picture work; the grand punch-line: in what is clearly one of those drunken “it seemed like a good idea at the time” moments, Santa has decided to screw around with an unwitting family’s Christmas tree. Having already filled the stockings with several tubes-worth of Ben-Gay (it took about a gross to get the effect that Santa desired; this was a family of seven after all), inserting and removing several randomly selected Christmas ornaments from his shorts, replacing a plate of milk and cookies with a collection of stinky cigar butts and overturned beer bottles, rearranging the Christmas lights to spell “boobies” when only the red lights light up, and having plotted to fill the menorah across the street with kerosene-soaked tampons, Santa now decides to remove the star from the tree and replace it with a signed 8 x 10 glossy of Rudy Ray Moore, dressed in his Petey Wheatstraw outfit. Little does he know that the family cat has noticed him and is now creeping up silently towards him, hungry, and planning on pestering him until he gets his usual meal of canned tuna and horsemeat.

     “HOLY SHIT!!! What the fuck is that?!?!” you can almost hear the drunk and disoriented Santa scream as he first feels the little beast’s paws against his leg. After a gap of roughly three to five seconds in which Santa gets his spinning head together and calms down a bit, his obesity-strained heart still beating fast from the shock, Santa has finally grasped the situation.

     “Oh, it’s just a cat. Fucking cat.”

     (This is followed by the sound of a cat being kicked.)

     Christ, I’m tired. I’m going to bed.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince