!0 Worst Christmas Songs

December 1st.

Seems like a good time to make a confession.

I despise Christmas music. Now before the shouts of Ebenezer get too loud let me point out it's not the holiday or season I dislike simply the soundtrack. Well, that and the glitter.

In honor of my confession I'm going to rank the 10 Worst (Fairly Well-Known) Christmas Songs. Sure there are even bigger monstrosities out there. Every Christmas song by the Beach Boys, the festive slop mainstream country hurls from Nashville, and those damn screechy Chipmunks but I tried to focus on the ones that radio stations play every hours this month.

10) You Are a Mean One, Mr Grinch - We tell our kids not to be bullies and yet here is this song that does nothing but belittle and ridicule. I dislike green things as much as anyone but where the the holiday cheer in this one?

9) The Twelve Days Of Christmas - True love my ass. better than half the crap on that list is worthless or flat out irritating. and speaking of being irritated the repetitive nature of this song makes it the B-I-N-G-O of yuletide entertainment.

8) All I Want For Christmas Is You - Who wrote
 this? John Hinckley Jr?

7) A Wonderful Christmas Time - Come on Paul McCartney. Quit trying to pretend you are as talented as John Lennon was. Lennon's Happy Christmas had meaning. Your song is a cancerous ear worm that lingers in it's victims longer than fruitcake in the pantry.

6) Santa Claus Is Coming To Town - The musical equivalent to George Orwell's novel 1984. And yet another reason to fear Big Brother.

5) Christmas Shoes - Hey let's all gather 'round and sing a song about momma dying. Yeah, That's festive.

4) Santa Baby - Nothing creates that giving spirit like a song glorifying gold diggers.

3) All I Want A Hippopotamus for Christmas - This little ditty teaches our kids bad rhymes and promotes unreasonable expectations.

2) I Saw Mamma Kissing Santa - Gotta love a song calling mom out as a two-timing whore.

1) Grandma Got Ran Over By A Reindeer - This song has it all ... alcoholism (grandma staggering around drunk on eggnog), death (grandma), compassion (grandpa already trifling around with cousin Belle), necrophilia (incriminating Clause marks on her back), sacrilege (disparaging SAINT Nick as a blond fool) ... all wrapped up in a horrendously gaudy package.

So tell me what bad holiday song did I miss?

Fertilizing For The Future

Pardon my French ... but the world is going to shit.

There are few things under the sun as pure as the joy of a child. And nothing brings on that joy like Christmas morning.

I still remember that eager anticipation I felt the night before ...  The vow to stay up and listen for even the faintest of sounds from Santa ... The straining to hear the tinkling of bells ... the heaviness of my eyelids.

Then the surprise come morning when i realize I did fall asleep. The bounding from bed and rush to the tree.

Yep, that was pure joy.

But what if? What if I arrived at the tree only to find this stinker of a gift idea. 

Sadly this little gift for kids is real. and even worse it is making the hot items list. yeah it's hot all right. It's a regular steaming pile of ...

From what I gather the kids playing this game take turns walking this plastic dog which is crammed full of a Play Doh like substance. The leash has a button that when pushed makes "gassy sounds." Eventually the gassy sound is followed by a plop and the lucky kiddo gets to clean up the aftermath. The "winner is the first child that gets to scoop poop for the third time.

Hell, not even Charlie Sheen would call that winning.

Come on people. Bring back jack, pick up sticks, hell the Stretch Armstrong I got in 1977 was better that Doggie Doo. Sure I busted it pen and to this day that goo is still stuck to the baseboard in my dad's house but at least Stretch wasn't crammed full of shit, or a substance meant to replace excrement.

Where do we go from here? A game called, Who wants to Change Granny's Depends?

As kids we don;t realize it, but it ain't that far a trip from childhood until adulthood. The time will come when every responsible adult finds themselves int he backyard, shovel in hand, wondering where they tookt he wrong turn that lead to them shoveling Fido's crap on a Saturday afternoon. Let's not speed up that journey by ruining your kids Christmas with work passed off as play.

On second thought I might just buy my buy the special edition Scotch Bright SpongeBob Action Figure complete with particle removing scrub action. That way I can watch the ball game Christmas day rather than doing dishes.

 

Second Rate Santa and the Saga of the ... Midnight Meat

Things got crazy around the mall during Christmas time, and they got even crazier when you could count the number of shopping days left without having to unzip your pants. (i.e. - less than ten days for those geniuses who don't have to count things out on your fingers, or for those of a gender that unzipping your pants doesn't help)

That's the time frame for this story. I believe it was the last Saturday before Christmas and the mall was staying open until midnight. Okay folks, let me say it. Their is nothing at The Gap or Banana Republic that you need at twelve o'clock at night. And if you have your kids out at that time dragging them from store to store you seriously need to ask Ol' Saint Nick for one of those Dr. Spock books, because you, my friend, are in dire need of parenting tips.

Notice I didn't say Jolly Ol' Saint Nick because nothing makes a guy more unjolly than to have been wearing an itchy fake beard all night while dealing with a sleigh full of rude and pushy procrastinators who want to take it out on you for them being behind in their shopping. Add in the fact fact they trot up a tired worn-out kid, who should've been in bed hours ago, and demand, I repeat DEMAND a picture where everyone is all smiles ... Well the whole scenario conjures up the the old saying, "Shit in one hand and want in the other, see which fills up first."

Got an idea what kind of night I was having?

Good, because this story really starts after I'd yanked the white beard off, stripped out of the red velvet suit. Don't get excited ladies, I quickly put on my regular clothes which probably consisted of a flannel button up shirt since it was cold and a pair of wranglers and maybe some lace-up hiking boots. You know your average lumberjack fashion.

So there I was at a quarter past midnight, looking a good bit like an agitated Paul Bunyon. Now normally I'd hike down the mall to the restroom to wash the white wax out of my eyebrows and the middle portion of my moustache, (My brows and mustache are black so I had to use a white wax pencil to color the portion that showed) but like I said I was fed up and ready to leave so I trudged straight outside where my wife was waiting in the nice warm car. At that time we only had one vehicle.

She took one look at said, "Rough night?"
"You can't imagine."

As we drove, I realized that my stomach was trying to gnarl through my spine so it could go out and find some food on its own. I'd eaten a dozen or so of those Little Debbie Oatmeal cookies that took star billing in last week's episode of the Santa Saga, but a man can't live on oatmeal and creme-filling alone -- he needs MEAT.

I am driving, since my wife hates to drive at night and her driving scares the bejeezus out of me even when the sun is shining bright, so I pull into WhataBurger, since unlike the mall, most of the fast food joints had closed at a decent hour. Now while I contend no one needs overpriced name brand clothing at midnight access to grease-laden food is an around the clock requirement.

So we pull up at the drive through window and I order a bacon cheeseburger with meat and cheese only.

Simple right?

Not for the fine folks working the graveyard shift at Whataburger. Let's just say I'm not sure the characters on duty that night could have counted passed ten whether they unzipped or not. But I didn't know that when I ordered, or even when they handed my sack of food through the window.

It wasn't until I took my first bite and gobs of mustard oozed down my throat. Okay many of you have heard me say, Lettuce is the Devil and it is, but mustard happens to be one of the devils disciples. I hate the stuff and anything that was turned into gas and used as a wartime weapon cannot be healthy to ingest. But back to the story.

I did a u-turn faster than you can say Blitzen and headed back to Whataburger. I stomped inside with the nasty taste of yellow satan at the back of my throat and headed straight for the counter. There wasn't another customer in the place, but that didn't keep the forty-something-year-old dude on duty from staring at me with the slack-jawed expression of a teenage pot head. Which no doubt he'd been at one point in his life. The pothead description probably still fit, but you can bet your Stretch Armstrong (that was a toy back in the day for any youngsters reading this) he hadn't been a teenager since sometime in the seventies.

Weird look aside, I told him my order was wrong and I wanted a bacon cheeseburger with meat and cheese only.

He opened up my burger and said that's what this is.
"No, it has mustard. I just want meat and cheese."
"Oh .." He nodded his head while continuing to stare at me as if I had an oatmeal turd for a nose. "No mustard. Got it."

I waited four or five minutes and he handed me a new sack. I pulled out he burger to check it and right away knew it was wrong again. I unwrapped it and there was the Devil itself in all its green evilness. Along with a slice of tomato and onion ... but at least there wasn't any mustard.

I should've just scraped the offending veggies off and lived with a bit of tomato juice and what not, but after my long night I was agitated and instead said, "This is still wrong. I only want meat and cheese. Nothing else."

By this time I noticed the cook peeking over the fryer at me. Along with the occasional weird glance from the drive-thru girl. They took my burger and again I waited. This time when I opened it there was not a drop mustard, nary a vegetable in sight, but you know what else was missing? The hamburger patty.

Right about then I lost it.

I freely admit when I raised my voice and said, "What the hell is a matter with you people!" I was not only taking out my frustration about the burger but every crying, bawling kid, every doubting-too-smart-for-their-own-good-Thomas of a kid, and every belligerent parent as well.

I ranted for a few minutes and then asked to see the manager. When the man in charge appeared he frowned and gave the same exact dumbfounded expression I'd been getting from his employees, but finally he said, "Can I help you sir?"

"I sure as hell hope so." I said. "I want a bacon cheeseburger with meat and cheese only. Nothing else. Is that too much to ask for?"

He opened up the wrapper and looked at his employees last effort. What's wrong with this one?"

"There is no hamburger patty in it."

Ne nodded still staring at me and I came to the conclusion he hadn't really heard a word I'd said because he was too busy eyeballing me.

Again I lost it and a little sarcastic elf began whispering in my ear, so I asked. "Is hamburger meat?"
The manager nodded.
"Is bacon meat?"
Another nod.
"Is lettuce meat?"
He frowned, but shook his head.
"Is it cheese?"
"Of course not?" A bit of irritation seeped into his speech.
"Is mustard meat?"
"No."
"Are they cheese?"
"Sir, we both know they are not."
"Then quit putting them on my damn burger and make it the way I ordered."

My tone finally wiped the dazed looked off the guys face as he crossed his arms and said, "Tell me how you want it and I'll personally guarantee it is made right."

I nodded and said. "I'll make this real easy since all of you seem a bit slow. "Put down the bottom of a bun, add a hamburger patty, a slice of cheese, three slices of bacon and then put the top on with out adding another damn thing." I delivered this fine little speech with a good bit of hand gestures to demonstrate how it should be done.

A minute later I finally had my burger just like I wanted, but possibly with a bit of spit added after the fit I'd thrown, but in my book the loogie of some middle aged pothead is still better than either lettuce or mustard.

Out in the car my wife asked, "What took so long?"

I gave her the complete replay and then said, "And the whole time those people kept staring at me as if I was crazy."

She gave me a look very reminiscent of the ones I'd gotten inside Whataburger and said, "Maybe it's because when you get mad those freaky little white eyebrows of yours dance all around."

That's when it dawned on me. I still had the colored eyebrows as well as the Hitler portion of my mustache colored white. Somewhere, a former Whataburger employee is probably blogging about the Christmas where some crazed guy with flocked eyebrows and mustache came in ranting and raving about meat and cheese and lettuce being the devil.

Another Second Rate Santa Saga - Ye Olde Yuletide Log

Still feverishly editing and tweaking my as-of-yet-still-too-long, short story so once again a second help of my Second Rate Santa Sagas.

Another Second Rate Santa Saga - Ye Olde Yuletide Log

The shopping days are dwindling, Jack Frost is nipping right along, and credit card CEOs are grinning. Yep, we're smack in the middle of Christmas season so here is a new edition of my Santa tales.


If you missed out on the picture of me in the red suit go here and read how I happened to become a mall Santa.

Installment two, can be found here.

And numero three, here.


Or you can skip those and join in the fun with this new edition.


I'm the kind of guy who tries to have fun regardless of the situation. Call it what you will - finding the silver lining, making lemonade out of lemons, believing there might be a diamond inside that lump of coal in my stocking. So even though playing Santa wasn't all Ho, Ho, Hos and gold tinsel, I tried to have fun. Though my idea of fun and other's isn't always the same, as this story illustrates.


Santa's domain sat smack dab in the middle of the mall. The set consisted of a small house open on three sides, a white picket fence which contained white cotton spread out on the ground to look like snow and a bunch of mechanical elves and reindeer. Some of the elves waved, others bent to pick up a package, or slowly turned their heads. But they all moved in some way. As did the reindeer.


Kids often asked about these mechanical critters and I would tell them that elf is named Squirtamirt or that one is Higgligiggle. And the reindeer I'd call Comet or Blitzen or whatever struck my fancy at the time. None of them had a red nose so I'd tell the kids that Rudolph was up on the roof.


Also from time to time I'd stand up, because my butt got sick of sitting for hours on end in that dang red velvet chair. Santa tried not to dig out the wedgies while anyone was watching but a guys gotta do what a guys gotta do. When I stood to "stretch" I'd always waved at the kids along the fence and shouted out, "Merry Christmas!" I'd also have a little fun with Galen, my boss.



The mall provided us with Oatmeal Creme Pies to hand out to every kid, whether they paid for a picture or not.

I like Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies myself, so in order to maintain the proper Santa physique I indulged in one, or two, or ten a night. Thus, I always had a few of the little round brown patties of goodness stashed  in my pocket.


If you have an aversion to bathroom humor and the immature actions of adult males -- stop reading now. If not proceed.

Did you know an oatmeal creme pie, removed from it's cellophane package and rolled up looks a lot like a human turd? Alarmingly similar if a person rolls said cookie so that each end tapers.

I left one of these "presents" under an elf for Galen to find and when he did, I got quit a reaction. He squinted, stepped closer, squinted some more. Then he called me over and pointed. "What is that?"

Waving to the kids, I said, "I don't know."

Galen scratched his head and bent down for a closer look. "Looks like a turd," He finally said.

Trying hard to maintain a straight face I chimed in with, "Guess Elves gotta go to."
"Well pick it up," Galen said.
"I'm not picking it up." I answered. There are kids watching. It wouldn't look very Santa-like to go around picking up Elf crap. Now would it?"

Galen stared some more. "What do you think it is, Really?"
I continued to wave, "Beats me."

Finally, he bent down to pick it up and found it to be softer and stickier than he ever imagined. The look on his face combined with the fact he nearly gagged had me laughing so hard tears filled my eyes.

There for a few seconds he really believed that Elf had laid a yuletide log and my only regret is that he threw the thing in the trash before I had a chance to grab it and take a bite, ala Bill Murray in Caddyshack.

Do You Believe?

I'll Tell You What To Believe, another Saga of the Second Rate Santa

I don't want this blog to become All Christmas ... All the Time, but I did say I would get another Second-Rate Santa Saga up this week. But this will be the last one until late next week or even the weekend, because I'd hate for my readers to require insulin after too many tales of sugar plum fairies. In another couple of weeks we'll all be so sick of hearing Jingle Bells and All I Want for Christmas is a Hippopotamus that the only way to make our spirits bright is to mount a giant hippo head above our fireplaces. But I digress.


I've had a hard time deciding which Santa tale to go with next. There is my personal favorite,which I think will be titled Midnight Meat, - but I have special plans for that one later on in the month and besides, I need to set up a few things through other stories first. There is one highlighting the immaturity of grown men, myself included, that I'll call, Ye Olde Yuletide Log, but since I described the three kinds of adults that visited Santa in the last post, I think I'll do the same with kids in this one. Again most of the kids fit in one of three categories.

The Awed - These were the kids that approached wide-eyed with mouths agape. To them I was a mystical hero capable of fulfilling all of their dreams and wishes. The would climb up on my lap and speak their hearts desires in whispered tones. They listened with rapt attention as I instructed them to listen to their parents and not fight with their brother's and sisters. I'll tell you there wasn't near enough of these kiddos, but they were the ones that made it fun.

The Scared - Again these kids were wide-eyed and their mouths were open - screaming at the top of their lungs. "No! I don't Want to! Please Mommy, please!" Nothing makes you feel better than to instill raw terror into small children. I know what Quasimodo felt like. But it could have been worse. The parents could have gathered up torches and pitchforks. Instead, they handed me their squalling and bawling offspring and then stepped back and said, "Smile, pretty for you picture honey." 

 

Ever try to get a terrified kid to stop crying and smile? It ain't easy. Especially when the very thing they are afraid is desperately holding onto them.

The Skeptical - These are the kids who walked up with narrowed eyes and smug grins. The IRS should hang around Santa's throne at malls and recruits these little doubters cause once they get on your case they can't be dissuaded. 

 

And is there really much difference in these two questions? "If you're really Santa then where is you Reindeer?" "Mr. Erwin, do you really expect me to buy into your claim that you traveled to Las Vegas solely for book research?"
They have the same ring to them huh? Yep, and it is about as joyous as the racket those Salvation Army Santas make out in front of Wal-mart. And here is a little tale to prove my point.

There I was sitting on my throne, well not my throne, the mall's throne they built for Santa. My throne is made of porcelain and doesn't have a stitch of red velour in sight, but at least there is always a good book near my throne. But back to Santa and the mall. The line was fairly long as it was a weekend afternoon. In times like that I fell into a routine. Welcome the next group in line, ask them what they want for Christmas, smile for the picture, and then tell them to be good little boys and girls because my elves were watching. In between I'd try to wave to the kids that gathered around the little white picket fence.

For a long time I noticed this one little girl about eight or nine standing there. I'd wave but she wouldn't respond. Finally, a small boy of about five joined her at the fence and finally the two of them along with a man and woman got in line. A good fifteen or twenty minutes went by before they made their way to the front. Here is the scene that followed.

"Merry Christmas," I shouted.
The boy smiled. She did not.
"And what would you like for Christmas?"
The boy said, "A new bike and a hamster."
I turned to the girl. "And how about you."
"I know you're not the real Santa Claus, and my mom won't let him have a live animal cause he squeezed our parkeet until it died."

At this point my boss Galen, said smile and the flash went off, but the girl wasn't done.

"The real Santa does't have time to sit around all day taking pictures."
"So what does the real Santa do all day?" I asked.
"He builds toys."
"I have elves to do that." Yeah I now. I was arguing with an eight-year old over something she was right about and I was wrong, but I had to have fun somehow.
"And he has to feed the reindeer."
"They fly around and find their own food," I countered.
She rolled her eyes, "Right."
I appealed to her little brother who I decided was an easier sell. "You be a good little boy and Santa will leave you a surprise Christmas morning."
"Will you bring me a hamster?"
"I'll have to ask your mommy first. Santa can't bring you something unless your parents say it's okay."

At this the girl gave a hearty, "Huuumph," and hopped off my lap. She grabbed her brother's hand and drug him off with her. As she left I heard her say, "See, I told you he wasn't the real one. The Santa can do anything he wants, long as Mrs. Clause says it's okay."

I couldn't help but laugh, but deep down I already felt sorry for the poor guy who would end up married to her cause it was painfully clear Mrs. Claus wouldn't be the only one granting permission.

The Second Rate Santa and the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly ... but mostly the Ugly.

When you mention mall Santas, most people think of kids, and probably 90% of the people who stood in line and came to sit on my lap were under the age of twelve. Then you had the older kids who hated to be there, but their parents still wanted that yearly picture so they forced them to shuffle up and plop down beside Santa in the over-sized chair. Those 'tweens and teenagers wouldn't be caught dead sitting on my, or any other Santa's lap.

Then there were the older people -- women mostly, but a few men as well. They were a mixed bag. Some were all TOO eager to sit on Ol' Saint Nick's lap and reveal their heart's desire. They, the adults ran the gamut from ...

The Good - An entire shift of Hooter's girls, a couple of shapely twins, and pretty young woman who only wanted to ask Santa for her fiance to be sent back stateside from Croatia in time for their planned Valentine's day wedding.

The Bad - An obviously gay man in a trench coat, no I can't say for certain that he had on anything else, the women who obviously had some kind of Santa fetish and delighted in making my cheeks rosy, and the plethora of hacking, wheezing flu-ravaged people who thought I, as a mall Santa, had the magical ability to ward off disease.

The Ugly - The ugly took many, many forms and will be fodder for this series throughout. When I say ugly I don't just mean physically though Frosty knows there were plenty that filled that sleigh. Along with the aesthetically challenged I had to deal with the hygiene deficient, the personality perplexed, and the downright delusional that actually thought I could fulfill their wishes. Then, there were those who fell into all of those categories. Plus some. The couple from today's installment certainly fits that bill.

It was early on, in that first week after Thanksgiving, before I'd become completely jaded against the entire legend of Santa Claus. I'd already encountered a few weird things, but I chalked those up as anomalies. 

 

The night had been steady, but far from the hectic madhouse it would become in a few short weeks, and with less than an hour to go until the mall closed I was feeling rather jolly. (A couple of weeks alter the mall started staying open til midnight and then with an hour to go I was just trying to sane.) Most of the elves had gone come so it was just Galen and me. He took the pictures, I smiled and listened to the kids lists.

But our next customers were far from being kids. And as they walked up Galen whispered out the the side of his mouth, "Get a load of these two."

 

They were in their early twenties. She wore a pair of ratty red sweat pants that were two sizes two small and with her rotund build the overall package looked sort of like Santa's gift bag. If it were overstuffed with two dozen Christmas hams. The woman's hair hadn't seen a brush since Prancer was nothing but a twinkle in his mother's eye, but she's lathered on enough make-up to make Rudolph's nose seem dull.

In stereotypical fashion her boyfriend was as skinny as she was large. His body was all angles and bones, like a broken up candy cane. A smudge above his upper lip that could have been a moustache or a stain of chimney soot. A chain hung from his grease-stained jeans and the cap on his head said something like, Truckers Do It For The Long Haul.

 

I made room for them to sit one on each side but of course she plopped down right on my left knee. With a pat on my right, she said, "Bobby you sit here."

He shook his head. "I don't think so." His filthy hair hung stiff like icicles. Though I'd never seen icicles made of oil. But just because I'd never seen it, didn't mean 10w-40 didn't freeze.

Like I said, I still had a bit of holiday cheer in me so I gave Jack Sprat and his girlfriend a hearty, "Merry Christmas!"

 

He mumbled something that might have been " Fuck off and die," but I can't say for certain.

Next, as was customary, I asked what they wanted Santa to bring them this year.

She giggled and said, "An engagement ring would be nice."

"Dream on," he answered.

"Maybe a puppy then."

He cast her a dirty look. "What are you stupid? You know my mom is allergic."

She returned his nasty expression with one of her own. "Then maybe we could move to a place of our own."

At this point Galen said smile and the flash went off just as the boyfriend said, "This is bullshit. I ain't made of money."

He grabbed the girls hand and yanked her down from my lap. My knee thanked him.

Galen said to them," Want to have a look at your picture?"

"Hell no. We ain't buying no fuckin' picture."

The girl stopped walking. She crossed her arms across her chest and stuck out her bottom lip like a two-year-old. "I want a picture."

"What for?"

"I just do."

He hauled out his wallet by tugging on the chain." Okay, but this counts as part of your present."

As he paid Galen, the girl said, "Gawd, Bobby you can be such an asshole."

He shrugged. "And you can be a bitch."

Smiling, she draped an arm across his skinny waist and slid her hand into his back pocket. "I know, but that's why you love me."

Galen handed the happy couple their photo and they walked away, arm in arm. Just before they rounded the corner he grabbed a handful of her ample sweatpant covered ham. 

 

Sometime next week I'll post another of these stories about my year as a mall Santa.

Ho Train

Every day I mean to get something posted here on the blog and yet I haven't managed to get it done for the last week. Today's edition is gonna be a little all over the place so bear with me.

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In good news, it looks as if one of my short stories is gonna appear in an e-book collection in the near future. I'll have more details later but I'm really excited because of the talented company my tale will be keeping. Readers of this blog will recognize most, if not all of the other authors. Trust me when I say talent abounds. But I am curious how many of y'all own an e-reader or have downloaded an e-book to read on some other device such as a smart phone or computer? Please chime in with a comment to let me know if you have or would seriously consider doing so.

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November was a poor writing month for me. While many of my friends were busy cranking out 50K plus words for NaNo I was brooding, editing, and researching various markets. I might have written 100 words of new story. I hope December is more productive but then again free time is a rarity during the Holidays. Especially if you work for the Post Office.

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Speaking of December. Here we are smack in the middle of "Ho" season so I feel it might civic duty to remind y'all to be mindful that the word Ho must always be used repetitively.

Ho!, Ho!, Ho! = Perfectly acceptable
Yo Ho Ho, and a bottle of Rum = Fine and dandy
You Ho, bring me a bottle of rum = Detrimental to your health.

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And keeping with the Ho Ho Ho theme let's talk Santa.

Longtime readers will recall that once upon a time I worked as a mall Santa. Back in December of 2007 I blogged about a few of those experiences.  I'm gonna shine a few of those tales up and trot them back for y'all amusement this holiday season. Here is a picture and the original introduction to those tales which I dubbed ... The Sagas of a Second Rate Santa.

That's right folks, that's me lurking beneath those snow-white whiskers and red hat. And here is the real story of how I became a mall Santa and happened to have a six foot plus, two-hundred and something pound red-headed man sitting on my lap.

The years was 2001. I was just shy of my 29th birthday, far too young to make a good Santa, but then again I never claimed I was a good Santa. The previous spring I'd agreed to play the Easter Bunny at the mall so the Santa gig was my second stint for the company.

Who ran the company? The red headed man on my lap, who also happened to be my boss at the Post Office. He knew I had a new baby and could use a bit of extra money so he hired me for nights and weekends.

The Easter Bunny was easy. Ten bucks an hours plus commission if we met our goals of getting so many pictures. Later, I will share some Bunny stories, which are actually funnier than the Santa ones, but y'all will have to wait for spring for those. The good thing about the Easter Bunny was I just had to sit there in my suit.

No talking. No Ho, Ho, Ho'ing. Just wave and sweat in a gimongous fur covered suit while the sun beat in through the mall's atrium windows. Easy money.

There was nothing easy about being Santa.

First, because I was young and my eyebrows are black, I had to get this wax pencil and color my brows white each time I donned the suit. Also the middle part of my moustache bled through the fake beard so I'd have to use the pencil to color what I'll call the Hitler portion of my 'stache white as well. Then, despite having a fairly ample gut of my own, I'd have to tie this big poofy pillowed girdle around my torso. Then I'd slip into the red velour trousers and shirt, hoist up the black suspenders, and then slip into the leather boots. Did you know Santa's footwear isn't much different from a Hell's Angel's?

Last, I'd slide the beard into place. It itched like hell and those little fine grey hairs constantly found their way inside my mouth and nostrils. They tickled like hell and over the course of a night spitting out the hairs and keeping them out of my nose proved to be nerve racking. For all I know they gather that crap from the backside of Polar Bears so who the hell knows what kind of germs I was ingesting. Of course every sick and snotty nosed kid in town ended up on my lap, so it didn't make much difference that I was snorting a tainted white face wig.

So after a half hour of getting dressed I'd wait for the Santa on duty before me to come back so I could take his place on the throne. Then the fun would really start.

At Easter you might get three or four people in line at the busiest time. The parents are calm and relaxed for the most part since they haven't spent all day running around from store to store maxing out their credit cards in the name of good cheer.

Christmas was an entirely different story. After a ten minute break the line would be twenty screaming kids long. Parents would be eyeballing their watches and scowling like constipated elves forced to eat prune-laced fruitcake.

Tomorrow I'll give you a little taste of the flavors of humanity that took a squat upon my lap that year. Let me tell you it wasn't all peppermint and sugar cookies.

And don't forget, I too am making a list and checking it twice. I wanna know your status on both e-readers and e-books. I need your answers 'cause the last thing you want is to be put on my naughty list.

Everyone is a Cynic

In lieu of a new post another visit to my days in the red suit ...

Sunday, December 2, 2007

I'll Tell You What To Believe, another Saga of the Second Rate Santa

I don't want this blog to become All Christmas ... All the Time, but I did say I would get another Second-Rate Santa Saga up this weekend. But this will be the last one until late next week or even the weekend, because I'd hate for my readers to require insulin after too many tales of sugar plum fairies. In another couple of weeks we'll all be so sick of hearing Jingle Bells and All I Want for Christmas is a Hippopotamus that the only way to make our spirits bright is to mount a giant hippo head above our fireplaces. But I digress.


I've had a hard time deciding which Santa tale to go with next. There is my personal favorite,which I think will be titled Midnight Meat, - but I have special plans for that one later on in the month and besides, I need to set up a few things through other stories first. There is one highlighting the immaturity of grown men, myself included, that I'll call, Ye Olde Yuletide Log, but since I described the three kinds of adults that visited Santa in the last post, I think I'll do the same with kids in this one. Again most of the kids fit in one of three categories.

The Awed - These were the kids that approached wide-eyed with mouths agape. To them I was a mystical hero capable of fulfilling all their dreams and wishes. The would climb up on my lap and speak their hearts desires in whispered tones. And they would listen with rapt attention as I instructed them to listen to their parents and not fight with their brother's and sisters. I'll tell you there wasn't near enough of these kiddos, but they were the ones that made it fun.

The Scared - Again these kids were wide-eyed and their mouths were open - screaming at the top of their lungs. "No! I don't Want to! Please Mommy, please!" Nothing makes you feel better than to instill raw terror into small children. I know what Quasimodo felt like. But it could have been worse. The parents could have gathered up torches and pitchforks. Instead, they handed me their squalling and bawling offspring and then stepped back and said, "Smile, pretty for you picture honey." Ever try to get a terrified kid to stop crying and smile? It ain't easy. Especially when the very thing they are afraid is holding onto them.

The Skeptical - These are the kids who walked up with narrowed eyes and smug grins. The IRS should hang around Santa's throne at malls and recruits these little doubters cause once they get on your case they can't be dissuaded. And is there really much difference in these two questions? "If you're really Santa then where is you Reindeer?" "Mr. Erwin, do you really expect me to buy into your claim that you traveled to Las Vegas solely for book research?"
They have the same ring to them huh? Yep, and it is about as joyous as the racket those Salvation Army Santas make out in front of Wal-mart. And here is a little tale to prove my point.

There I was sitting on my throne, well not my throne, the mall's throne they built for Santa. My throne is made of porcelain and doesn't have a stitch of red velour in sight, but at least there is always a good book near my throne. But back to Santa and the mall. The line was fairly long as it was a weekend afternoon. In times like that I fell into a routine. Welcome the next group in line, ask them what they want for Christmas, smile for the picture, and then tell them to be good little boys and girls because my elves were watching. In between I'd try to wave to the kids that gathered around the little white picket fence.

For a long time I noticed this one little girl about eight or nine standing there. I'd wave but she wouldn't respond. Finally, a small boy of about five joined her at the fence and finally the two of them along with a man and woman got in line. A good fifteen or twenty minutes went by before they made their way to the front. Here is the scene that followed.

"Merry Christmas," I shouted.
The boy smiled. She did not.
"And what would you like for Christmas?"
The boy said, "A new bike and a hamster."
I turned to the girl. "And how about you."
"I know you're not the real Santa Claus, and my mom won't let him have a live animal cause he squeezed our parakeet until it died."

At this point Galen, said smile and the flash went off, but the girl wasn't done.

"The real Santa doesn't have time to sit around all day taking pictures."
"So what does the real Santa do all day?" I asked.
"He builds toys."
"I have elves to do that." Yeah I now. I was arguing with an eight-year old over something she was right about and I was wrong, but I had to have fun somehow.
"And he has to feed the reindeer."
"They fly around and find their own food," I countered.
She rolled her eyes, "Right."
I appealed to her little brother who I decided was an easier sell. "You be a good little boy and Santa will leave you a surprise Christmas morning."
"Will you bring me a hamster?"
"I'll have to ask you mommy first. Santa can't bring you something unless your parents say it's okay."

At this the girl gave a hearty, "Huuumph," and hopped off my lap. She grabbed her brother's hand and drug him off with her. As she left I heard her say, "See, I told you he wasn't the real one. The Santa can do anything he wants. as long as Mrs. Clause says it's okay."

I couldn't help but laugh, but deep down I already felt sorry for the poor guy who would end up married to her.

Revisiting My Ho Filled Past

I've been meaning to write up a post but I just don't seem to get it done. So for those who missed it the first time around Here is a recap of my days as a mall Santa. I am including my first two posts. The first explains how I came to be a mall Santa and the other should help explain why I'd never do it again.



That's right folks, that is me lurking beneath those snow-white whiskers and red hat. And here is the real story of how I became a mall Santa and happened to have a six foot plus two hundred and something pound red-headed man sitting on my lap.



The years was 2001. I was just shy of my 29th birthday, far too young to make a good Santa but then again I never claimed I was a good Santa. The previous spring I had agreed to play the Easter Bunny at the mall so the Santa gig was my second stint for the company. Who ran the company -- the red headed man on my lap, who also happened to be my boss at the Post Office. He knew I had a new family and could use a bit of extra money so he hired me for nights and weekends.

The Easter Bunny was easy. Ten bucks and hours plus commission if we met our goals of getting so many pictures. Later, I will share some Bunny stories, which are actually funnier than the Santa ones, but y'all will have to wait for spring for those. The good thing about the Easter Bunny was I just had to sit there in my suit. No talking, no Ho, Ho, Ho'ing. Just wave and sweat in a gimongous fur covered suit while the sun beat in through the mall's atrium windows. Easy money.

There was nothing easy about being Santa. First, because I was young and my eyebrows are black, I had to get this wax pencil and color my brows white each time I donned the suit. Also the middle part of my mustache bled through the fake beard so I'd have to use the pencil to color what I'll call the Hitler portion of my 'stache white as well. Then, despite having a fairly ample gut of my own, I'd have to tie this big poofy pillowed girdle around my torso. Then I'd slip into the red velour trousers and shirt, hoist up the black suspenders, and then slip into the leather boots. Did you know Santa's footwear isn't much different from a Hell's Angel's?


Last, I'd slide the beard into place. It itched like hell and those little fine grey hairs constantly found their way inside my mouth and nostrils. They tickled like hell and over the course of a night spitting out the hairs and keeping them out of my nose proved to be nerve racking. For all I know they gather that crap my the backside of Polar Bears so who the hell knows what kind of germs I was ingesting. Of course every sick and snotty nosed kid in town ended up on my lap, so it didn't really make a difference.


So after a half hour of getting dressed I'd wait for the Santa on duty before me to come back so I could take his place on the throne. Then the fun would really start.


At Easter you might get three or four people in line at the busiest time. The parents are calm and relaxed for the most part since they haven't spent all day running around from store to store maxing out their credit cards in the name of good cheer.


Christmas was an entirely different story. After a ten minute break the line would be twenty screaming kids long. Parents would be eyeballing their watches and scowling like constipated elves forced to eat prune-laced fruitcake.


Between now and Christmas I'm gonna tell y'all many a tale of what went on after that. From sad, to funny, to head shaking, people- are-crazy. But I just might have been the craziest of them all. I also might have been the worst mall Santa the world has ever witnessed, but my pain, and the scarred memories of many a child is y'alls gain. So get ready to read all about, The Saga of a Second Rate Santa.



** a couple of notes**


The man on my lap's name is Galen, As I said he was the boss at the Post Office at one time. I took a good amount of flack for working for him on the side. Things like Santa's nose is supposed to be red, not brown. This picture was taken to really give them something to talk about and to prove I could take anything they wanted to dish out. Don't worry I paid them back. If there is one thing I'm good at it is getting even, or even better getting ahead.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

The Second Rate Santa and the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly ... but mostly the Ugly.

When you mention mall Santa's, most people think of kids, and probably 90% of the people who stood in line and came to sit on my lap were under the age of twelve. Then you had the older kids who hated to be there but their parents still wanted that yearly picture so they forced them to shuffle up and plop down beside Santa in the over-sized chair. There was no way those 'tweens and teenagers were about to sit on my, or any other Santa's lap.

Then there were the older people, women mostly, but a few men as well. They were a mixed bag. Some were all too eager to sit on Ol' Saint Nick's lap and reveal their heart's desire and then ran the gamut from ...

The Good - An entire shift of Hooter's girls, a couple of shapely twins, and pretty young woman who only wanted to ask Santa for her fiance to be sent back stateside from Croatia in time for their planned Valentine's day wedding.

The Bad - An obviously gay man in a trench coat, no I can't say for certain that he had on anything else, the women who obviously had some kind of Santa fetish and delighted in making my cheeks rosy, and the plethora of hacking, wheezing flu ravaged people who thought I as a mall Santa had the magical ability to ward off disease.

The Ugly - The ugly took many, many forms and will be fodder for this series throughout. When I say ugly I don't just mean physically though Frosty knows there were plenty that filled that sleigh. Along with the aesthetically challenged I had to deal with the hygiene deficient, the personality perplexed, and the downright delusional that actually thought I could fulfill their wishes. Then, there were those who fell into all of those categories and then some. Like the couple from today's installment.

It was early on, in that first week after Thanksgiving, before I'd become completely jaded against the entire legend of Santa Claus. I'd already encountered a few weird things, but I chalked those up as anomalies. The night had been steady but far from the hectic madhouse it would become in a few short weeks, and with less than an hour to go until the mall closed I was feeling rather jolly. (A couple of weeks alter the mall started staying open til midnight and then with an hour to go I was just trying to sane.) Most of the elves had gone come so it was just Galen and me. He took the pictures, I smiled and took the kids list.

But our next customers were far from being kids. And as they walked up Galen whispered out the the side of his mouth, "Get a load of these two."

They were in their early twenties. She had on a pair of ratty red sweat pants that were two sizes two small and with her rotund build the overall package looked sort of like Santa's gift bag. If it were overstuffed with about two dozen Christmas hams. The woman's hair hadn't seen a brush since Prancer was nothing but a twinkle in his mother's eye, but she wore enough make-up to make Rudolph's nose seem dull.

In stereo-typical fashion her boyfriend was as skinny as she was large. His body was all angles and bones, like a broken up candy cane. And there was a smudge above his upper lip that could have been a moustache or a smudge of soot. A chain hung from his grease-stained jeans and the cap on his head said something like, Truckers Do It For The Long Haul.

I made room for them to sit one on each side but of course she plopped down right on my left knee. With a pat on my right, she said, "Bobby you sit here."

He shook his head. "I don't think so." His filthy hair hung stiff like icicles. Though I'd never seen icicles made of oil. But just because I'd never seen it didn't mean 10w-40 didn't freeze.

Like I said, I still had a bit of holiday cheer in me so I gave Jack Sprat and his girlfriend a hearty, "Merry Christmas!"

He mumbled something that might have been " F ... off and die," but I can't say for certain.

Next as was customary I asked what they wanted Santa to bring them this year.

She giggled and said, "An engagement ring would be nice."

"Dream on," he answered.

"Maybe a puppy then."

He cast her a dirty look. "What are you stupid?" You know my mom is allergic."

She returned his nasty expression with one of her own. "Then maybe we could move to a place of our own."

At this point Galen said smile and the flash went off just as the boyfriend said, "This is bullshit. I ain't made of money."

He grabbed the girls hand and yanked her down from my lap. My knee thanked him.

Galen said to them," Want to have a look at your picture?"

"Hell no. We ain't buying no effin picture."

"The girl stopped walking. She crossed her arms across her chest and stuck out her bottom lip like a two year old. "I want a picture."

"What for?"

"I just do."

He hauled out his wallet by tugging on the chain." Okay, but this counts as part of your present."

As he paid Galen, the girl said, "Gawd, Bobby you can be an asshole."

He shrugged. "And you can be a bitch."

Smiling, she draped an arm across his skinny waist and slid her hand into his back pocket. "I know, but that's why you love me."

Galen handed the happy couple their photo and they walked away, arm in arm. Just before they rounded the corner he grabbed a handful of her ample sweatpant covered ham.

Ho, Frickin, Ho

Mom' surgery got postponed until this afternoon, which means I have no time to write the post that I meant to. So, I'm going to repost one that some of you might have missed from last holiday season.

For those who do not know I spent one financially desperate year working as a mall Santa. I was horrible at it, but the experience did provide me a bit of storytelling fodder. This is one such story. For the others, or to see a shot of me in the full Santa garb, click here.

Second Rate Santa and the Sage of the ... Midnight Meat

Things are crazy around the mall during Christmas time, and they get even crazier when you can count the number of shopping days left without having to unzip your pants. (i.e. - less than ten days for those geniuses who don't have to count things out on your fingers, or for those of a gender that unzipping your pants doesn't help)

That's the time frame for this story. I believe it was the last Saturday before Christmas and the mall was staying open until midnight. Okay folks, let me say it. Their is nothing at The Gap or Banana Republic that you need at twelve o'clock at night. And if you have your kids out at that time dragging them from store to store you seriously need to ask Ol' Saint Nick for one of those Dr. Spock books, because you are in dire need of parenting tips.

Notice I didn't say Jolly Ol' Saint Nick because nothing makes a guy more unjolly than to have been wearing an itchy fake beard all night while dealing with a sleigh full of rude and pushy procrastinators who want to take it out on you for them being behind in their shopping. Add in the fact fact they trot up a tired worn-out kid, who should have been in bed hours ago, and demand, I repeat DEMAND a picture where everyone is all smiles ... Well the whole scenario conjures up the the old saying Shit in one hand and want in the other. Then see which fills up first.

Got an idea what kind of night I was having? Good, because this story really starts after I'd yanked the white beard off, Stripped out of the red velvet suit. Don't get excited ladies, I quickly put on my regular clothes which probably consisted of a flannel button up shirt since it was cold and a pair of wranglers and maybe some lace-up hiking boots. You know your average lumberjack fashion.

So there I was at a quarter past midnight, looking a good bit like an agitated Paul Bunyon. Now normally I'd hike down the mall to the restroom to wash the white wax out of my eyebrows and the middle portion of my moustache, (My brows ans mustache are black so I had to use a white wax pencil to color the portion that showed) but like I said I was fed up and ready to leave so I trudged straight outside where my wife was waiting in the nice warm car. At that time we only had one vehicle.

She took one look at said, "Rough night?"
"You can't imagine."

As we drove, I realized that my stomach was trying to gnarl trough my spine so it could go out and find some food on its own. I'd eaten a dozen or so of those Little Debbie Oatmeal cookies that took star billing in last week's episode of the Santa Saga, but a man can't live on oatmeal and creme-filling alone -- he needs MEAT.

I am driving, since my wife hates to drive at night and her driving scares the bejeezus out of me even when the sun is shining bright, so I pull into WhataBurger, since unlike the mall, most of the fast food joints had closed at a decent hour. Now while I contend no one needs overpriced name brand clothing at midnight access to grease-laden food is an around the clock requirement.

So we pull up at the drive through window and I order a bacon cheeseburger with meat and cheese only.

Simple right?

Not for the fine folks working the graveyard shift at Whataburger. Let's just say I'm not sure the folks on duty that night could have count passed ten whether they unzipped or not. But I didn't know that when I ordered, or even when they handed my sack of food through the window.

It wasn't until I took my first bite and gobs of mustard oozed down my throat. Okay many of you have heard me say, Lettuce is the Devil and it is, but mustard happens to be one of the devils disciples. I hate the stuff and anything that was turned into gas and used as a weapon cannot be good to ingest. But back to the story.

I did a u-turn faster than you can say Blitzen and headed back to Whataburger. I stomped inside with the nasty taste of yellow satan at the back of my throat and headed straight for the counter. There wasn't another customer in the place, but that didn't keep the forty-something-year-old dude behind the counter from staring at me with the slack jawed expression of a teenage pot head. Which no doubt he had been at one point in his life. The pothead probably still fit him, but you can bet your Stretch Armstrong (that was a toy back in the day for any youngsters reading this) he hadn't been a teenager since sometime in the seventies.

Weird look aside, I told him my order was wrong and I wanted a bacon cheeseburger with meat and cheese only.

He opened up my burger and said that's what this is.
"No it has mustard. I just want meat and cheese."
"Oh .." He nodded his head despite continuing to stare at me as if I had an oatmeal turd for a nose. "No mustard. Got it."

I waited four or five minutes and he handed me a new sack. I pulled out he burger to check it and right away knew it was wrong again. I unwrapped it and there was the Devil itself in all its green evilness. Along with a slice of tomato and onion ... but at least there wasn't any mustard.

I should have just scraped the offending veggies off and lived with a bit of tomato juice and what not, but after my long night I was agitated and instead said, "This is still wrong. I only want meat and cheese. Nothing else."

By this time I had noticed the cook peeking over the fryer at me. Along with the occasional weird glance from the drive-thru girl. They took my burger and again I waited. This time when I opened it there was not a drop mustard, nary a vegetable in sight, but you know what else was missing? The hamburger patty.

Right about then I lost it.

I freely admit when I raised my voice and said, "What the hell is a matter with you people!" I was not only taking out my frustration about the burger but every crying, bawling kid, every doubting-too-smart-for-their-own-good-Thomas of a kid, and every belligerent parent as well.

I ranted for a few minutes and then asked to see the manager. When the man in charge appeared he frowned and gave the same exact dumbfounded expression I'd been getting from his employees, but finally he said, "Can I help you sir?"

"I sure as hell hope so. I want a bacon cheeseburger with meat and cheese only. Nothing else. Is that too much to ask for?"

He opened up the wrapper and looked at his employees last effort. What's wrong with this one?"

"There is no hamburger patty in it."

Ne nodded still staring at me and I came to the conclusion he hadn't really heard a word I'd said because he was too busy eyeballing me.

Again I lost it and a little sarcastic elf began whispering in my ear, so I asked. "Is hamburger meat?"
The manager nodded.
"Is bacon meat?"
Another nod.
"Is lettuce meat?"
He frowned, but shook his head.
"Is it cheese?"
"Of course not?" A bit of irritation seeped into his speech.
"Is mustard meat?"
"No."
"Are they cheese?"
"Sir, we both know they are not."
"Then quit putting them on my burger and make it the way I ordered it."

My tone finally wiped the dazed looked off the guys face as he crossed his arms and said, "Tell me how you want it and I'll personally guarantee it is made right."

I nodded and said. "I'll make this real easy since all of you seem a bit slow. "Put down the bottom of a bun, add a hamburger patty a slice of cheese, three slices of bacon and then put the top on with out adding another damn thing." I delivered this fine little speech with a good bit of hand gestures to demonstrate how it should be done.

A minute later I finally had my burger just like I wanted, but possibly with a bit of spit added after the fit I'd thrown, but in my book the loogie of some middle aged pothead is still better than either lettuce or mustard.

Out in the car my wife asked, "What took so long?"

I gave her the complete replay and then said, "And the whole time those people kept staring at me as if I was crazy."

She gave me a look very reminiscent of the ones I'd gotten inside Whataburger and said, "Maybe it's because when you get mad those freaky little white eyebrows of your dance all around."

That's when it dawned on me. I still had the colored eyebrows as well as the Hitler portion of my mustache colored white. Somewhere, a former Whataburger employee is probably blogging about the Christmas where some crazed guy with flocked eyebrows and mustache came in ranting and raving about meat and cheese only.

Second Rate Santa and the Sage of the ... Midnight Meat

Things are crazy around the mall during Christmas time, and they get even crazier when you can count the number of shopping days left without having to unzip your pants. (i.e. - less than ten days for those who geniuses and don't have to count things out on your fingers or for those of a gender that unzipping your pants doesn't not help)

That's the time frame for this story. I believe it was the last Saturday before Christmas and the mall was staying open until midnight. Okay folks, let me say it. Their is nothing at The Gap or Banana Republic that you need at twelve o'clock at night. And if you have your kids out at that time dragging them from store to store you seriously need to ask Ol' Saint Nick for one of those Dr. Spock books because you are in dire need of some parenting tips.

Notice I didn't say Jolly Ol' Saint Nick because nothing makes a guy more unjolly than to have been wearing an itchy fake beard all night while dealing with a sleigh full of rude and pushy procrastinators who want to blame you for them being behind in their shopping. Add in the fact fact they trot up a tired worn-out kid, who should have been in bed hours ago, and demand I repeat DEMAND a picture where everyone is all smiles ... Well the whole scenario conjures up the the old saying Shit in one hand and want in the other. Then see which fills up first.

Got an idea what kind of night I was having? Good, because this story really starts after I'd yanked the white beard off, Stripped out of the red velvet suit. Don't get excited ladies, I quickly put on my regular clothes which probably consisted of a flannel button up shirt since it was cold and a pair of wranglers and maybe some lace up hiking boots. You know your average lumberjack fashion.

So there I was at a quarter past midnight, looking a good bit like an agitated Paul Bunyon. Now normally I'd hike down the mall to the restroom to wash the white wax out of my eyebrows and the middle portion of my moustache, but like I said I was fed up and ready to leave so I trudged straight outside where my wife was waiting in the nice warm car to pick me up. At that time we only had one vehicle.

She took one look at said, "Rough night?"
"You can't imagine."

As we drove i realized that my stomach was trying to gnarl trough my spine so it could go out and find some food on its own. I'd eaten a dozen or so of those Little Debbie Oatmeal cookies that took star billing in last week's episode of the Santa Saga, but a man can't live on oatmeal and creme-filling alone -- he needs MEAT.

I am driving, since my wife hates to drive ant night and her driving scared the bejeezus out of me even when the sun is shining bright, so I pull into WhataBurger, since unlike the mall, most of the fast food joints had closed at a decent hour. Now while I contend no one needs overpriced name brand clothing at midnight access to grease-laden food is an around the clock requirement.

So we pull up at the drive through window and I order a bacon cheeseburger with meat and cheese only. Simple right? Not for the fine folks working at Whataburger and twelve-thirty at night. Let's just say I'm not sure the folks on duty that night could count passed ten whether they unzipped or not. But I didn't know that when I ordered, or even when they handed my sack of food through the window.

It wasn't until I took my first bite and gobs of mustard oozed down my throat. Okay many of you have heard me say, Lettuce is the Devil and it is but mustard happens to be one of the devils disciples. I hate the stuff and anything that was turned into gas and used as a weapon cannot be good to ingest. But back to the story.

I did a u-turn fast than you can say Blitzen and headed back to Whataburger. I stomped inside with the nasty taste of yellow satan at the back of my throat and headed straight for the counter. There wasn't another customer in the place, but that didn't keep the forty something year old dud behind the counter from staring at me with the slack jawed expression of a teenage pot head. Which no doubt he had been at one point in his life. The pothead probably still fit him but you can bet your Stretch Armstrong (that was a toy back in the day for any youngsters reading this) he hadn't been a teenager since sometime in the seventies.

Weird look aside, I told him my order was wrong and I wanted a bacon cheeseburger with meat and cheese only.

He opened up my burger and said that's what this is.
"No it had mustard. I just want meat and cheese."
"Oh .." He nodded his head despite continuing to stare at me as if I had an oatmeal turd for a nose. "No mustard. Got it."

I waited four or five minutes and he handed me a new sack. I pulled out he burger to check it and right away knew it was wrong again. I unwrapped it and there was the Devil itself in all its green evilness. Along with a slice of tomato and onion ... but at least there wasn't any mustard.

I should have just scraped the offending veggies off and lived with a bit of tomato juice and what not but after my long night I was agitated and said, "This is still wrong. I only want meat and cheese. Nothing else."

By this time I had noticed the cook peeking over the fryer at me. Along with the occasional weird glance from the drive-thru girl. They took my burger and again I waited. This time when I opened it there was not a drop mustard, nary a vegetable in sight, but you know what else was missing? The hamburger patty.

Right about then I lost it. I freely admit when I raised my voice and said, "What the hell is a matter with you people!" I was not only taking out my frustration about the burger but every crying bawling kid, every Doubting -too-smart-for-their-own-good-Thomas of a kid, every belligerent parent as well.

I ranted for a few minutes and then asked to see the manager. When the man in charge appeared he frowned and gave the same exact dumbfounded expression I'd been getting from his employees, but finally he said, "Can I help you sir?"

"I sure as hell hope so. I want a bacon cheeseburger with meat and cheese only. Nothing else. Is that too much to ask for?"

He opened up the wrapper and looked at his employees last effort. What wrong with this one?"

"There is no hamburger patty in it."

Ne nodded still staring at me and I cam to the conclusion he hadn't really heard a word I'd said because he was too bust eyeballing me.

Again I lost it and a little sarcastic elf began whispering in my ear so I asked. "Is hamburger meat?"
The manager nodded.
"Is bacon meat?"
Another nod.
"Is lettuce meat?"
He frowned but shook his head.
"Is it cheese?"
"Of course not?" A bit of irritation seeped into his speech.
"Is mustard meat?"
"No."
"Are they cheese?"
"Sir, we both know they are not."
"Then quit putting on my burger and make it the way I ordered it."

My tone finally wiped the dazed looked off the guys face as he crossed his arms and said, "Tell me how you want it and I'll personally guarantee it is made right."

I nodded and said. "I'll make this real easy since all of you seem a bit slow. "Put down the bottom of a bun, add a hamburger patty a slice of cheese, three slices of bacon and then put the top on with out adding another damn thing." I delivered this fine little speech with a good bit of hand gestures to demonstrate how it should be done.

A minute later I finally had my burger just like I wanted, but possible whit a bit of spit added after the fir I'd thrown but the spit of some middle aged pothead is still better than lettuce or mustard.

Out in the car my wife asked, "What took so long."

I gave her the complete replay and then said, "And the whole time those people kept staring at me as if I was crazy."

She gave me a look very reminiscent of the ones I'd gotten inside Whataburger and said, "Maybe it's because when you get mad those freaky little white eyebrows of your dance all around."

That's when it dawned on me. I still had the colored eyebrows as well as the Hitler portion of my mustache colored white. Somewhere, a former Whataburger employee is probably blogging about the Christmas where some crazed guy with flocked eyebrows and mustache came in ranting and raving about meat and cheese only.

Another Second Rate Santa Saga - Ye Olde Yuletide Log

The shopping days are dwindling, Jack Frost is nipping right along, and credit card CEOs are grinning. Yep, we're smack in the middle of Christmas season so here is a new edition of my Santa tales.


If you missed out on the picture of me in the red suit go here and read how I happened to become a mall Santa.

Installment two, can be found here.

And numero three, here.


Or you can skip those and join in the fun with this new edition.


I'm the kind of guy who tries to have fun regardless of the situation. You can call it what you will - finding the silver lining, making lemonade out of lemons, believing there might be a diamond inside that lump of coal in my stocking. So even though playing Santa wasn't all Ho, Ho, Hos and gold tinsel, I tried to have fun. Though my idea of fun and other's isn't always the same, as this story illustrates.


Santa' domain sat smack dab in the middle of the mall. The set consisted of a small house open on three sides, a white picket fence which contained white cotton spread out on the ground to look like snow and a bunch of mechanical elves and reindeer. Some of the elves waved, others bent to pick up a package, or slowly turned their heads. But they all moved in some way as did the reindeer.


Kids often asked about these mechanical critters and I would tell them that elf is named Squirtamirt or that one is Higgligiggle. And the reindeer I'd call Comet or Blitzen or whatever struck my fancy at the time. None had a red nose so I'd tell the kids that Rudolph was up on the roof.


Also from time to time I'd stand up, because my butt got sick of sitting for hours on end in that dang red velvet chair. Santa tried not to dig out the wedgies while anyone was watching but a guys gotta do what a guys gotta do. When I stood to "stretch" I'd always wave at the kids along the fence and shout out, "Merry Christmas!" I'd also have a little fun with Galen, my boss.



The mall provided us with Oatmeal Creme Pies to hand out to every kid, whether they paid for a picture or not. I like Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies myself, so in order to maintain the proper Santa physique I indulged in one, or two, or ten a night. Thus, I always had a few of the little round brown patties of goodness in my pocket.




Id you have an aversion to bathroom humor and the immature actions of adult males -- stop reading now. If not proceed.

Did you know an oatmeal creme pie, removed from it's cellophane package and rolled up looks a lot like a human turd? Alarmingly similar of the person who rolls us said cookie goes to the added trouble of tapering each end.

I left one of these "presents" under an elf for Galen to find and when he did, I got quit a reaction. He squinted, stepped closer, squinted some more. Then he called me over and pointed. "What is that?"

Waving to the kids, I said, "I don't know."
Galen scratched his head and bent down for a closer look. "Looks like a turd," He finally said.
Trying hard to maintain a straight face I chimed in with, "Guess Elves gotta go to."
"Well pick it up," Galen said.
"I'm not picking it up. It wouldn't look very Santa-like to go around picking up Elf crap. Now would it?"

Galen stared some more. "What do you think it is, Really?"
I continued to wave, "Beats me."

Finally, he bent down to pick it up and found it to be softer and stickier than he ever imagined. The look on his face combined with the fact he nearly gagged had me laughing so hard tears filled my eyes. There for a few seconds he really believed that Elf had laid a yuletide log and my only regret is that he threw the thing in the trash before I had a chance to grab it and take a bite, ala Bill Murray in Caddyshack.

I'll Tell You What To Believe, another Saga of the Second Rate Santa

I don't want this blog to become All Christmas ... All the Time, but I did say I would get another Second-Rate Santa Saga up this weekend. But this will be the last one until late next week or even the weekend, because I'd hate for my readers to require insulin after too many tales of sugar plum fairies. In another couple of weeks we'll all be so sick of hearing Jingle Bells and All I Want for Christmas is a Hippopotamus that the only way to make our spirits bright is to mount a giant hippo head above our fireplaces. But I digress.


I've had a hard time deciding which Santa tale to go with next. There is my personal favorite,which I think will be titled Midnight Meat, - but I have special plans for that one later on in the month and besides, I need to set up a few things through other stories first. There is one highlighting the immaturity of grown men, myself included, that I'll call, Ye Olde Yuletide Log, but since I described the three kinds of adults that visited Santa in the last post, I think I'll do the same with kids in this one. Again most of the kids fit in one of three categories.

The Awed - These were the kids that approached wide-eyed with mouths agape. To them I was a mystical hero capable of fulfilling all their dreams and wishes. The would climb up on my lap and speak their hearts desires in whispered tones. And they would listen with rapt attention as I instructed them to listen to their parents and not fight with their brother's and sisters. I'll tell you there wasn't near enough of these kiddos, but they were the ones that made it fun.

The Scared - Again these kids were wide-eyed and their mouths were open - screaming at the top of their lungs. "No! I don't Want to! Please Mommy, please!" Nothing makes you feel better than to instill raw terror into small children. I know what Quasimodo felt like. But it could have been worse. The parents could have gathered up torches and pitchforks. Instead, they handed me their squalling and bawling offspring and then stepped back and said, "Smile, pretty for you picture honey." Ever try to get a terrified kid to stop crying and smile? It ain't easy. Especially when the very thing they are afraid is holding onto them.

The Skeptical - These are the kids who walked up with narrowed eyes and smug grins. The IRS should hang around Santa's throne at malls and recruits these little doubters cause once they get on your case they can't be dissuaded. And is there really much difference in these two questions? "If you're really Santa then where is you Reindeer?" "Mr. Erwin, do you really expect me to buy into your claim that you traveled to Las Vegas solely for book research?"
They have the same ring to them huh? Yep, and it is about as joyous as the racket those Salvation Army Santas make out in front of Wal-mart. And here is a little tale to prove my point.

There I was sitting on my throne, well not my throne, the mall's throne they built for Santa. My throne is made of porcelain and doesn't have a stitch of red velour in sight, but at least there is always a good book near my throne. But back to Santa and the mall. The line was fairly long as it was a weekend afternoon. In times like that I fell into a routine. Welcome the next group in line, ask them what they want for Christmas, smile for the picture, and then tell them to be good little boys and girls because my elves were watching. In between I'd try to wave to the kids that gathered around the little white picket fence.

For a long time I noticed this one little girl about eight or nine standing there. I'd wave but she wouldn't respond. Finally, a small boy of about five joined her at the fence and finally the two of them along with a man and woman got in line. A good fifteen or twenty minutes went by before they made their way to the front. Here is the scene that followed.

"Merry Christmas," I shouted.
The boy smiled. She did not.
"And what would you like for Christmas?"
The boy said, "A new bike and a hamster."
I turned to the girl. "And how about you."
"I know you're not the real Santa Claus, and my mom won't let him have a live animal cause he squeezed our parkeet until it died."

At this point Galen, said smile and the flash went off, but the girl wasn't done.

"The real Santa does't have time to sit around all day taking pictures."
"So what does the real Santa do all day?" I asked.
"He builds toys."
"I have elves to do that." Yeah I now. I was arguing with an eight-year old over something she was right about and I was wrong, but I had to have fun somehow.
"And he has to feed the reindeer."
"They fly around and find their own food," I countered.
She rolled her eyes, "Right."
I appealed to her little brother who I decided was an easier sell. "You be a good little boy and Santa will leave you a surprise Christmas morning."
"Will you bring me a hamster?"
"I'll have to ask you mommy first. Santa can't bring you something unless your parents say it's okay."

At this the girl gave a hearty, "Huuumph," and hopped off my lap. She grabbed her brother's hand and drung him off with her. As she left I heard her say, "See, I told you he wasn't the real one. The Santa can do anything he wants. as long as Mrs. Clause says it's okay."

I couldn't help but laugh, but deep down I already felt sorry for the poor guy who would end up married to her.