You were the fat guy in the red suit at the local mall a few weekends ago, sitting on a couch surrounded by fake presents and tinsel-draped phony shrubbery. I was the guy standing 10 feet away, on the other side of the rail, with my toddler sitting on my shoulders. We'd brought him all the way there to meet you.
“Hi, Santa!” he yelled. “Hi, Santa Claus!”
We were about to buy our ticket and stand in line so he could have his picture taken with you. But instead of waving back at my kid or even cracking a smile, you shot me an admonishing glare, a pointless refusal to be friendly that probably translated to something like this: “Hey, get in line, pal; I'm not waving at your stupid kid for free.”
Fuck that, Santa. And fuck you, too.
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