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Q: Why does Santa have such a big sack?

A: ‘Cuz he only comes once a year.

Santa is GAY! I hate to be the one to defy sacred myth, but I believe Santa’s gay. Christmas is a big, organized, warm, fuzzy, nurturing social deal, and I have a tough time believing a straight man could possibly pull it all off! For starters, think about the planning that goes into an event like Christmas. Even Martha Stewart is envious.

Straight men have day jobs, so they wouldn’t have time to stand at the local shopping malls and ring a bell all day. But if you’re a gay, out-of-work Actor/Dancer/Waiter it’s the perfect gig until you get your big break. Also, if he were straight he would have picked a more masculine animal than the reindeer to get him around, like horses or oxen, but the reindeer just happens to appeal to Santa’s inherent sense of grace and beauty. And those names: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen? Fill in the blanks.

Mrs. Claus has been married to him for eons and he’s never fathered a child with her, she’s over-weight and still content… Can you say “Fag-hag”?

Ever thought about the Rudolph story? He’s gay too! “All of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names. They never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games.” (as if he wanted to). Isn’t Rudolph really a metaphor for the gay child in a straight society anyway?

Ever ask yourself why fruitcake is the traditional dessert at Christmas time? Well, now you know. And stop pretending you don’t like it. Deep down inside, you’ve always liked fruitcake.

Other reasons why Santa can’t possibly be a straight man:

* Look at the size of the bag he packs for a one night trip!
* Red velvet, fur collar, black engineer boots… think people!
* Physically he’s a wet dream for the Girth and Mirth club and the perfect poster model for GMSMA.
* Gay men have long been using stockings to hide their candy.
* Ho Ho / Homo… a little too similar if you ask me.
* That long over-night flight around the world taps into the flight attendant gene. And one more thing, did you ever know a straight man named Nicholas? Oh, straight society has tried to butch up his image by calling him St. Nick, but we know better. It’s Nicholas, damn it! Ms. Claus if you’re nasty. Merry Christmas!

In a small Texas town there was a “Nativity Scene” that showed great skill and talent had gone into creating it. But one small feature bothered me: the three wise men were wearing firemen’s helmets. Totally unable to come up with a reason or explanation, I left.
At a “Quik Stop” on the edge of town, I asked the lady behind the counter about the helmets. She exploded into a rage, yelling at me, “You darn Yankees never read your Bibles!”
I assured her that I did, but simply couldn’t recall anything about firemen in the Bible.
She jerked her Bible from behind the counter and riffled through some pages, and finally jabbed her finger at a passage. Sticking it in my face she said, “See, it says right here, ‘The three wise men came from afar.’”

Q: Why don’t Santa Claus have any kids?

A: He only cums once a year and thats down the chimney

‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house
I searched for the tools to hand to my spouse.
Instructions were studied and we were inspired,
in hopes we could manage “Some Assembly Required.”

The children were quiet (not asleep) in their beds,
while Dad and I faced the evening with dread:
a kitchen, two bikes, Barbie’s town house to boot!
And, thanks to Grandpa, a train with a toot!

We opened the boxes, my heart skipped a beat
- let no parts be missing or parts incomplete!
“Too late for last-minute returns or replacement;
if we can’t get it right, it goes in the basement!”

When what to my worrying eyes should appear
but 50 sheets of directions, concise, but not clear.
With each part numbered and every slot named,
so if we failed, only we could be blamed.

More rapid than eagles the parts then fell out,
all over the carpet they were scattered about.
“Now bolt it! Now twist it! Attach it right there!
Slide on the seats, and staple the stair!”

“Hammer the shelves, and nail to the stand.”
“Honey,” said hubby, “you just glued my hand.”
And then in a twinkling, I knew for a fact
that all the toy dealers had indeed made a pact

To keep parents busy all Christmas Eve night
with “assembly required” till morning’s first light.
We spoke not a word, but kept bent at our work,
till our eyes, they went bleary; our fingers all hurt.

The coffee went cold and the night, it wore thin
before we attached the last rod and last pin.
Then laying the tools away in the chest,
we fell into bed for a well-deserved rest.

But I said to my husband just before I passed out,
“This will be the best Christmas, without any doubt.
Tomorrow we’ll cheer, let the holiday ring,
and not have to run to the store for a thing!

We did it! We did it! The toys are all set
for the perfect, most perfect, Christmas, I bet!”
Then off to dreamland and sweet repose
I gratefully went, though I suppose
there’s something to say for those self-deluded…
I’d forgotten that BATTERIES are never included!



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