Ho ho ho!

When I was little, my mom attempted to invoke the spirit of Christmas by way of a miserable-looking, one-foot tall tree adorned with a string of lights blinking nervously. After around 3 years, she finally conceded that it didn't help to make the atmosphere any merrier. On the contrary, it seemed to reinforce the pervading mood of disinterest that weighed heavy in the air.

The Christmases that I read about are different from those in real life; they're just a figment of somebody's rose-colored imagination. Like Santa Claus, which is a product of someone's cruel sense of humor. Who but a sick person would delude children into believing that a big old man would travel from the North Pole to the houses of all 1,782,600, 527 children across the globe to deliver presents on a single night? Except those who had been naughty, of course, which is downright unfair because the criteria is highly subjective and must be based on rumor rather than fact.

Although I must agree with the image of Santa Claus as a portly man. If he wolfs down a plateful of cookies and a glass of milk in every household he visits, it should come as no surprise that he's overweight. However, this should make it virtually impossible for him to climb down chimneys burdened with a sack of toys. Thank god for tropical countries where the houses are chimney-less; he can go through the door or the window like a common burglar.

I realize that having Santa Claus in the mall is a ploy to jack up sales, but I find it creepy that little kids are to sit on his lap while they tell him what they want for Christmas. Remember, he's a big old bearded man named Santa Claus. It makes you wonder.

I'm inclined to believe that Santa Claus is a hoax, if only because he can be in so many places at any given time. Either that or he has more impersonators than Elvis. But my gut, filled with fruitcake and eggnog, tells me that he's not real.

Oh, boy. Peter Pan will be so miffed.