F*@k you, Santa Claus! Shouting this phrase in anger is surely the way to the Naughty List. However, in my defense, it was shouted not after great contemplation, but during a fit of pain. (Not my finest moment, but not as damning as the time I accidentally punched a bible.) And it wasn't the real(?) Santa that drew my ire. It was a murderous decorative wooden Santa that stabbed me in the arm.
One wouldn't think that Christmas decorations would be so dangerous. I mean, sure, you get the occasional tree that topples or light strings that ignite, but rarely do decorations actually attack. This evil Santa is a flat wooden sign hanging from our front door. Santa has a wooden banner with very sharp points hanging below his feet. Most times the door swings, Santa and his banner swing. Every so often, or every time I use the door it seems, the far end of the banner digs into the door frame pushing the near end of the wooden banner directly into my path. If you are a big oaf like me and crash into the sign at this exact moment, the far end of the banner, pressed against the door frame, has nowhere to go leaving the near end to bore its way through your bicep. Hence the cut, the bruise, the flying expletive, the immediate landing on the Naughty List and the feeling of shame. At least I didn't say it in front of the girl. That would have garnered a few "Father of the Year" nominations. Had I channeled my rage into karate chopping Santa's smug, smiling beardface in two at that time I could have saved myself some trouble. Instead I waited until I ran into the damn thing three more times before removing it.
These repeated, coordinated attacks by wooden Santa may have left a lesser man to adopt a Bah Humbug mentality. I, however, despite the fact that I have been unfairly accused of being Scroog-ish the past couple years, have embraced this holiday season. After the 2011 I've had, who could blame me for being a little Humbug? But I've shoved all the grief, worry and turmoil aside long enough to enjoy the lead-up to Christmas. Not even the fat sonofabitch hanging from my door could bring me down.
Of course, Santa Karma got the last laugh anyway. Just after removing Jolly Ole' Saint Nick from the door, I left our three-year-old's largest gift half opened in the back of the car for her to see. After Grace asked, "What's in the box?", more times than Brad Pitt in Seven, my wife was forced to lie to her, making up something about recycling. It's like the opposite of those Best Buy commercials. Yep, somewhere wooden Santa is chuckling as he nominates me for Father and Husband of the Year.
