Santa lives in the North Pole- which is actually a Polar Desert, a wasteland if you will.

Seems like a miserable existence if you ask me.

If I had told the story, I’d have Santa living in a cave- instead of Reindeer his sled would be pulled by a team of giant Mastiffs and on Christmas Eve they’d explode from the darkness and up into the sky and Santa’s laugh wouldn’t be so jolly as it would sound like someone who had just escaped from, well, Hades.

Santa has a touch of the macabre on him- he knows what is in your heart and he rewards or punishes you for your deeds- with gifts.

He sneaks from roof top to roof top in the middle of the night looking for you so as to know get caught delivering his ‘rewards’ or you know bribes.

Don’t get me wrong, I sort of like that touch of darkness to the Claus- it makes him a little more interesting

I think those kids that scream bloody murder when they see the Mall Santas know the score.

 

 

Lucky for us all I didn’t come up with the Santa Story, lucky for some of us I haven’t ruined the Santa legend.

Still.

I’d rather wake up in the middle of the night and hear that thud on my roof, the sound of something quietly making it’s way into my house, and laughing maniacally to himself as he floats towards the tree with his little eyes ablaze because he knows what is in my heart.

Yes. He. Does.

Joy always tastes a little better with a dash of danger.

 

OUR RANDOM VIEW: Santa’s Grotto