He's Not Real. There, I Said It. (Sort of)

Blasphemy.

I couldn't even say it in the title, just in case some little kid accidentally saw it. I didn't want to scar him. But I'll say it now.

Santa's not real.

Me (circa. 1970). Opening a present from "Santa".

I grew up like most American kids, writing letters to the fat man, hoping he'd look past all my transgressions and bring me that GI Joe with the kung-fu grip. I watched all the Christmas movies that made adults look like buffoons because they didn't believe and I sang songs about magic reindeer and put out cookies and came down Christmas morning to see nothing but crumbs. And under the tree, the payoff was wrapped in ribbon.

GI Joe... kung-fu gripping.

But then a neighbor's dad spilled the beans. I was 9. (I think. God, I hope I wasn't 15.) I confronted my parents and they came clean.

Yep. Santa, he's not real. We've been lying aaaalllll this time.

I think this is the part where most well-adjusted kids just go with the flow. After all, we were getting presents from Santa, who cares if he's imaginary. Who cares if we were told 1 million times that we just have to believe he's real and he'll be real. Because if we don't believe, well then it sucks to be you.

Who cares if we got punished for lying about who broke the window and we got grounded for losing our grade cards when we really lit them on fire and we got disciplined for making up a story about why we were late for dinner (something about a flat tire and a hobo). Who cares that we'd end up on the naughty list for all that lying and we'd get coal in our stocking for all that lying and we could wave goodbye to GI JOE AND HIS GODDAMN KUNG-FU GRIP.

Who cares, right?