I love the holidays, but there is one thing I am glad I won’t have to see again until next year. The screaming, crying torture session pics with Santa. I can’t take it.
People, please explain to me the reason that everyone feels the need to subject their children to these pictures? It makes me fucking crazy!! When I get this picture from you, my opinion of you forever changes. Whenever you do or say something stupid, I say to myself…Santa Torture Pic Lover and feel somewhat comforted in the fact that you just can’t help yourself from being a dumbass. I then wait for the picture of your naked screaming baby freezing his ass off in a slimy carved out pumpkin, holes cut out for his feet. Brutal.
I saw a Christmas card at a friend’s house the other day of a family that had put a slew of these torture pictures of their kids, compiled over many years, on a card for the world to see. All this says to me is, it’s official…a new Ruler of the Dumbasses has been elected. If I meet these people at a party in the future, I’ll remember…I always remember. I will steer clear of you and you should steer clear of me. It’s better that way. Sometimes I can’t help myself. I might just be inclined to re-enact my impression of your Christmas card with full volume and thrashing. Awkward for everyone.
Anyways, we just send letters to the big dude. I told my children when and if they want to go have a chat with him, let me know and we’ll go. Until then I’ll save myself and them the over an hour, sometimes 2 hour, wait in line for a screaming, crying torture picture with the creep in a Santa suit.
Maybe my hatred stems from childhood memories. (what hatred doesn’t)
I vividly remember being subjected to this as a child and it was exactly that, FUCKING TORTURE. Waiting in the never ending line at the mall, sweating my ass off, fearing the lights would catch my fancy and extremely itchy Santa picture clothes on fire, feeling extreme disgust for everyone around me, having to pee so badly I might die, watching the dirty kid behind us pick his nose and feed it to his brother, daydreaming of projectile vomiting on everyone in front of me and watching them scatter, as the chaos clears- I am magically next in line as I hear the church chorus singing “Halleluiah” in my head.
All the snacks were always on reserve for a “freak out” by my younger brother. Mom, “Can I have some popcorn?” I would ask. What if he freaks out?? Dude, that’s on him…I’ll just pretend I’m part of the dirty family back there. I can pick a good nose like the rest of em.
Anyone who knows my mom knows she makes friends with everyone everywhere she goes…I’ll save this for a future more expanded explanation, but just know that because of this, she was usually oblivious to my heightened level of anxiety. I would be crouching down under the stroller to try to stop my legs from cramping and my bladder from giving, shielding myself from the burning lights and dirty children touching me, now STARVING as well. She would say, “OMG! Meg, did you know that Patti’s daughter Penelope does gymnastics too??” Really, I don’t fucking care if she has a Junior Olympics gold medal! Who the fuck is Patti?? Stop talking to that freak and her “children of the corn” eyed daughter. Eyes on me Mom, Eyes on me.
We would finally make it to the front of the line. They open the candy cane gate and the world is NEW! Here comes the “HALLELUIAH” again, but this time for real. The barriers are down, a beautiful Christmas Dream Land
They snap the picture. My mom grabs my brother. The world is quiet.
She shows us the picture and I’m amazed at how purple my brother’s face is…
Wow, Man…that’s impressive.
By the way kids, that creep’s lap I just made you sit on (as you were photographed and laughed at, which caused you to completely lose your shit) - will be sneaking into our house while you’re sleeping in a few days. Awesome.
If I can save one child, I have done my duty.
