**Note: This is not the “pedophile Santa” or “Santa hacked my kids to death with a rusty cleaver in the middle of the night” thread
You’ve seen, mocked and been shocked by 'em. You’ve, maybe, let your kid sit on one’s lap. You know who I’m talking about – the discount store Santa. The one that forces you to tell your darling child: “No, he’s not Santa. He’s Santa’s helper.”
The askew cotton ball beard; cheap, threadbare suit; black hair showing from under a dirty hat; slightly pudgy with a pillow down his pants; on a folding chair; not an elf in sight; good-meaning-but-not-up-to-snuff Santa.
The Santa at the Granite Run Mall in suburban Philly has real white, hair, beard, is jolly, rosy-cheeked, bespectacled, good natured, couldn’t scare a mouse Santa. Shoppers flock from miles around to take their children to see him. The mall owners know this so he is paid very well.
So why do the store owners go through the motions if they’re not gonna do it right?
I remember visiting a Santa on 69th Street in Philly as a child. One year he was Santa. The next year he was Santa’s Helper and the year after that he was some guy in a cheap red suit.
I know I was getting older, but the Santa was crappier and crappier every year.
Ho, Ho, Ho!
::Santa crosses Chief off his “good boy” list. Extra coal for him this year. And I guess I’ll have to return this new DVD player I had picked out for him. Too bad!::
Santa
I actually witnessed security guards dragging away a drunken Santa after he had relieved himself in a Chess King dressing room. He wasn’t the mall’s Santa, but rather one of those freelance bell and kettle jobs that loiter at the entrance.
And how about the parents who force a frightened infant or toddler to sit on Santa’s lap! The poor little kid screams in terror just so the parent’s can have a photo (of their kid crying.) If there was justice, those parents would have nightmares for at least a month afterward.
Just so you know, those kids usually only scream after I whisper in thier ear a little tale about creepy crawlies under their beds. Santa has to have fun too, you know. As for the peeing in the Chess King dressing room, hey- ya gotta go, ya gotta go. YOU try waiting until you can find a bathroom after drinking a dozen or so Guiness. Just Santas point of view
Santa,
Ho, Ho, Ho!