Dirty Santa

Saturday was the day Santa Claus took to the streets in cities across the nation. Call it what you will: SantaCon, the Santa Stomp, Santa Stampede, or Santa Rampage, but it's all the same thing, a horde of degenerates taking to the street challenging notions of commercialism, cultural icons and sobriety.

The best Santa suit for SantaCon is a cheap one, preferably some flannel job from the local chain drugstore bought for something between 12-20 dollars. My suit cost more, but it's a heavier plush, and is warmer in pouring rain. As an advantage, it fits my oversize ass.

The romp itself is something of a bar crawl, but no bar can serve 300 Santas in an hour, so it's best to bring your own. Santa's cocktail of choice is Santa's snowball. The drink itself is a tasty mix of peppermint schnapps, creme de cacao, vanilla vodka and half and half, but the pleasure comes from explaining to folks what a snowball is. Well, that and explaining Santa's cum tastes like a candy cane. Dirty. Today Santa killed off a full liter of snowballs and then switched to eggnog and brandy. Santa is a drunk.

As per usual, Santa hit all the local tourist spots, the carousel, the tourist promendade and the local Hooters. I have to say, those are the worst looking booby girls I've ever seen. If the Owl is hypothetically hiring on the quality of the knockers (as any knave can wait tables) then the manager in town should be shitcanned. I have better assets and I'm a frigging National Geographic centerfold.

Santa also hit a park on the main tourist drag, a sea of red on a field of green. How Christmassy! This Santa kept met a really HANDSOME Santa from LA. Santa chatted him up and then milled around looking for other Santa's of acquaintance. It was fully worth it though to see a wedding party emerge from the church where Marilyn Monroe was married. A mighty roar went up and the lovely couple was charged by over 300 Santas moving at full tilt. Santa was hollering HO HO HO like a wintertime war cry. Props to the bride for not running right back into the church. Those ought to be some interesting wedding pictures.

After the park, Santa headed over to one of the local strip joints. That was about when it started to rain. It was also about then that Santa switched from Snowballs to Eggnog, and consequently things get fuzzy. I owe some Santa a picture of her and her boyfriend. I also talked to a cop who was really being awesome. Very refreshing. Yay local PD for not being schmucks.

Shortly thereafter then the booze kicked in hard. I remember walking down the wrong way of the liquor store line, just so I could greet every Santa. In retrospect, Santa should probably have gotten a redbull, not a flask of E&J.

I must capitulate on the notion that I don't speak German when drunk. Though technically true, I don't speak *german*, I do try, to pathetically comedic effect for anyone who can vaguely comprehend my gutteral exhortations. Today's victims were the Tranny Santa that I thought was just a not so attractive girl, but was actually, a reasonably attractive NuYorkeno boy, dressed as a girl. I was speaking to him in Spanish while the none more coherent than I boy by my side was going in German and English. His poor friend spoke not a word, and I think was left out, even though my bi-lingual friend was saying nothing more than My NAME IS! My NAME IS! Did I mention we were sitting on our asses outside the strip club? Santa was too drunk to even stand up.

This is how the zombies got me. I don't have a super clear memory of how I got nabbed, except that the perpetrator was the guy who looks like Harry Potter. One of the four eff's is Don't Eff With Santa. I knew the zombies were going to be there and I was fully prepared to take a vodka bottle to zombie teeth. You see, I'm not really down with the zombie meme. Zombie Potter was just lucky I was a happy and fully sedated into paralysis Santa. I'll say this Zombie Potter did me up right. I barely noticed him doing it, and only later I got a good look at myself at my final stop of the night, the Irish banker's bar. It looked like some Canadian had mistaken Santa for a baby seal. Blood ran down the bridge of Santa's nose, soaked into her eyebrow, smudged on her lower eyelid and upper lip, and dribbled like tears down her cheek. Yes, there are pictures.

Separated from other Santas of acquaintance I wandered around the bar accosting, I mean chatting with, various Santa Strangers. That was fun, but I wish I'd the Santas I was supposed to meet up with. On my way out, I reconnected with Excessively Handsome Santa, who tried to take this Santa back to his hotel for a little mistletoe excitement. As tempting as it was, I'm not that kind of Santa. However, even alcohol can get the best of Santa's will power, so it confirmed my sense that it was a good time to go.

The white wig has been washed clean of fake blood. The remainder of the eggnog has been returned to the fridge. The Santa suit is sitting in a heap, waiting for next year, when Santa makes a last ditch effort to check some lists, update the naughty and nice, and blow off a little steam before the big night.