Santa fascinated me. I contemplated Santa daily from Thanksgiving until Christmas Morning. I remember asking my parents about Santa Claus -- not if he were real (of that I was certain!) -- rather, why didn't he use his magical, gift-giving powers to pay off our mortgage last Christmas? Or, how about World Peace and a kick-ass Corvette? Why didn’t he cure my uncle’s drinking problem -- or at least transport him out of jail for the holidays? These are the kinds of questions parents face when they allow their child to believe in Santa Claus until he's 15. It’s a good thing my folks finally let me in on the gag: I was planning to ask for a fake I.D. and my very own Taiwanese sex slave that Christmas. And a Nintendo.
When you discover the truth about Santa, you don’t feel disappointment. You feel excitement. You yearn to tell every kid younger than you that Santa isn't real. Five minutes after learning that Santa is really your mom and dad, you suddenly become the Paul Revere of your neighborhood.
“[Marching the street and shouting] THERE'S NO SANTA. IT'S REALLY MOM AND DAD PLAYING A TRICK ON YOU. Surrender your hopes and dreams, little ones. Santa is a myth! The Santa you met at the mall is just a recovering alcoholic who squeaked by a criminal background check. Santa isn’t real.”
Nothing brings more joy around the holidays than shattering the dreams of kids a year younger than you.