copyright 1997 Jim Chevallier
Ho, ho, ho!
I am too Santa Claus kid. - Yeah, I'm a girl. Like duh-uh. Because
I need the money, OK? It's either you little germ-donors or cooking
Christmas burgers at the local take-out.
Hey, but enough about me. What greedy little totally unreasonable
demand do you want to make of the Great White Beard? No, I didn't grow the
beard. I'm a girl, OK? We don't as a general thing grow beards. Hey, look,
would you rather have me or some red-eyed wino who's working off his last
bottle of Boone's Farm? Like liquor breath, do you? Well, then, work with
me here, OK? I got midterms next week plus a female problem you don't want
to know about, so trust me, I am not in the mood.
What'll it be then? A molded plastic semi-automatic so you can
imitate your favorite mad gunman? Some bloodthirsty boy-doll that crawls
around on its belly, armed to the teeth? A little remote control tank you
can send shooting through pedestrians' feet and scare the Pampers off frail
old ladies? Come on, sweetie, you just tell Sister Santa here what violence
and mayhem disguised as a toy will put your little testosterone-tainted
heart all a fluttter. Rat-a-tat-tat! Boom, boom, boom!
No, I do NOT have a problem with men! Where do you get this stuff?
What kind of shows do your parents let you watch, anyway? And no there is
nothing weird about a female Santa! You better get used to it kid, when you
grow up, there's gonna be girls EVERYWHERE. Yeah, that's right, we're even
in the army!
Ah no, now I've gone and made you cry. Hey, can we get a nurturer
over here? Anyone into being maternal?