Overweight old man in a snowsuit who has an unnatural attraction to little kids travels the world with flying reindeer (one of whom is ostracized for looking different), lives in a land with a frightening Abominable Snowcreature (whose only reason for not gobbling up everyone around him is that someone pulled out his teeth), holds elves in indentured servitude and has his life's story narrated by a snowman named Sam whose voice bears a striking resemblance to a dead guy named Burl.
Exactly who decided that this was a classic children's story?
Whoever it was must have been on one doozy of an acid trip.
And whoever it was certainly didn't live with my 4-year-old, who had flushed cheeks covered in big fat tears last night as he screamed, "I don't wanna watch it, I don't wanna watch it! Nooooooo!"
First The Grinch, then Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I hate to even think about the upcoming Friday night's viewing of Frosty the Snowman. I can't remember it from childhood. Perhaps I blocked out the bad memory. Let me guess...he dies. Melts. Bids a fond farewell and puddles up in the sunlight.
It's bad enough having to explain every other line of T'was the Night Before Christmas.
What's a kerchief?
What are sugarplums?
What's a sash?
Who's St. Nick? I thought he was Santa.
What are coursers?
How does he fit that big sack down the chimney?
What are ashes?
What's a broad face?
What's the down of a thistle?
Nevermind that Santa's puffing on a pipe, leaving wreaths of secondhand smoke polluting the air. Nevermind that Santa eats 40 billion cookies on Christmas eve and is a walking billboard for coronary artery disease. Nevermind that he prances around icy rooftops in subfreezing weather, breaking into people's houses in the middle of the night, lucky a burning yule log doesn't light his butt aflame.
This holiday's freaking ME out now. No wonder grownups drink so much Nog.
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