The sheer horror of the holiday season brought to you by Chopchop McJangle, my alter-ego, without conscious or concerns for social finery. Teens text and have sex, then check facebook, then get strangled, maimed, broken and beaten by the vengeful Santa. Who spends hundreds on a smartphone then even more for a data plan for these little zipperheads? Or several hundred for a game console then however much on games? Santa is tired of it. No one wants the wooden hobby horses or yo-yo's or marachas anymore. It's all gear, now. Santa should give them a talking to, maybe, but herein he overreacts and spills bloody vengeance all over the ungrateful brats, all before they can get their clothes on.
They think they will be happy with the latest gadget, the latest in-thing. Instead they are pinioned by Claus, naked, in mock sainthood from the spirit of a saint himself. We mix metaphors with victims nude, splayed, as if offering themselves up, but truly, this is just how the bodies of the greedy little creeps fall.
The parents will be off: father golfing, mother on a pilgrimage to make herself as a Kardashian. Modernity is a busy pursuit; you cannot just read the news and be modern. You have to do the prerequisite work, the prep, and then after, you must maintain the image, the trappings of success and happiness, blinding yourself like a carriage horse and giving oneself over to modern play.
Santa ain't havin' it this time. There will be no reward for bad little girls and boys. He brought a chainsaw, with a bow on it, under the pretense of giving it to the father, but alas, its only there to make his killing easier: chainsaw murders. This time he's making a statement, painting the town red.
All your cookies and milk are belong to Chopchop. He's a shockmeister, the man from Snowy River. He's on the ground to ruin Christmas for all the greedy little chilluns.