Christmas time is here. Let’s kill Santa.
There are two things I’m pretty good at: Celebrating the holidays and identifying pure evil. Unfortunately, these two skill sets co-mingle every year since I have been adjoined to the woman that is my wife.
Years ago, her sainted grandmother decided to make doll-like toys. These are not like the porcelain dolls like in What Ever Happened To Baby Jane? Instead, think of the creepy clown in Carol Anne’s room in Poltergeist. These “dolls” are more plush and less dainty than the lace and frills and pale visages of the Victorian dolls that you might think of.
One we called Hobo Clown Doll. He’s missing at the moment. Hobo Clown Doll wore faux-denim overalls, had the grizzled face, a half-smoked plastic stogie stuck in his sneering lips, about two weeks of growth on his cheeks and chin, and a hat straight out of The Grapes of Wrath. Most disturbing was the make-up. My wife’s grandmother – who by all accounts was a sweet and gracious woman – did not put the make-up on the doll’s face. It was manufactured as such. But lo and behold the creepy bastard had mascara, eye shadow and a touch of rouge.
Dolls are creepy on their own accord. Transvestite dolls are simply terrifying.
One doll is still with us. He is Santa Claus. From heel to head, he’s maybe 16 inches tall. His stocking cap adds a few inches. His feet are adorned with little rubbery cream-colored shoes, that might have been white when the lil’ demon was put together. Over the years (he was gifted to my wife in the late 1970s), his red pants and jacket have held together well although some of the white piping has stained, the material has balled up in spots.
Lil’ Santa’s beard resembles icicles hanging from an eave. Matted and dirty, the frayed grizzle hangs unmoving. Santa’s eyes are beady and small. Oddly, he’s looking off the side. I have sworn that his eyes change position when you are not looking. They may look right one day and left another. He, too, is adorned with make-up, mostly eye shadow. His withered cap sticks straight up, fully erect resembling a pesky sprite or a mischievous gremlin.
I know evil when I see it, and this is evil. I often hear the pitter-patter of his little boots across the tiled floor of the kitchen as he retrieves knives for his nightly slaughter. I won’t allow my daughter to get too close in case he catches her scent and murders her in her sleep. Even our dogs – animals having often extra-sensory capabilities – snarl at the little imp as he nonchalantly stands on our hearth.
He’s a creepy bastard. I don’t like him looking at me. I like being around him. Due to his presence, I look to the Christ child for peace. Meanwhile, I plot a bonfire, I procure a sharpened blade and I plan on the destruction of the devil.