The True Meaning of Christmas
If I were Rudolph, I’d agree to Santa’s offer to guide his sleigh with my shiny nose which, until that point in my life, had made me a pariah, keeping me from social interaction with my fellow creatures, limited opportunities for exercise, and earning me painful epithets and taunts. Then I’d guide the sleigh into the side of a frickin’ brick building after I detached myself from the reins and fly off and call the local food shelter with the offer of hundreds of pounds of free venison to feed the hungry. Then I’d hand out the toys that managed not to get splattered with deer entrails to the poor and needy. Then assuming his spine hadn’t snapped on impact or he hadn’t completely bled out, I’d call 911 so they could take Santa to the hospital, where they could attend to his wounds and perhaps treat him to a little vertical banded gastroplasty to counteract all those years of mindless gobbling down of cookies and milk. Plus, some sessions with an expert who can teach him about proper management of his animals. And that is the true meaning of Christmas forever and ever, amen.