This past weekend, New York parents who wanted to preserve the magic of Christmas should have locked their kids inside and closed the blinds.
Because on Saturday night, NYC was overrun by bar-hopping Santas during an annual event called “Santa Con”.
They started out early, looking fresh and vibrant. They clogged the mean streets with their seasonal joie de vivre, big belts and hearty “ho ho hos” and “woo-hoos!”
As the festivities wore on though, the Santas started getting sloppy. Belligerent, even. Prompting my pal Mike to mutter, “Most of these Santas look like assholes.”
By nightfall, white trim was starting to fall off of too-tight Mrs. Santa velvet mini skirts, and you just knew which of these festive femmes were going to wind up peeing in a ditch while shrieking to her friends, “I need a fuckin’ cigarette!”
Soon, the crowds of Santas were enveloped by the stench of skunkweed and beer farts.
While trying to kill time before boarding a train at Grand Central for a party in New Rochelle, my pal Mike and I tried to find a bar in the area that was relatively Santa free. Amazingly, we found an Irish pub. We couldn’t understand how all the Santas had missed it. We soon found out. The door flung open and a horde of Santas stumbled inside. The bartender immediately bellowed, “No Santas in here! Get out.”
We toasted him, thanked him and smiled as he shook his head saying, “I ain’t got time for that shit.”
The train to New Rochelle was also filled with inebriated Santas, prompting people to say things like, “Hey Santa, you dropped your i-phone!” or “Hey Santa, wake up!” One little kid kept crying, “No quiero! No quiero!” and I thought, “I’m with you little man. I don’t want it either.”
On Sunday morning I ventured out to get a cup of coffee, grateful that I no longer had to deal with anything drunken Santa-related. But I was wrong.
For one of these kind Santas left a special gift behind just for me…