mmmmmciv

A Hot Shave and a Frozen Candy Cane

Does anyone know the real story

of Ol’ Saint Nick?  No?  Well, I

just happen to know someone

who knows someone who is

pretty good friends with Prancer.

Prancer the famous reindeer.  And

by way of that reindeer I have been

entrusted with this: it turns out that 

our dear Santa only lived to the age of a 

hundred eighty-seven.  Yep, the story 

goes that after decades of dealing with

that itchy, scratchy, rash-inducing

beard, jolly and warm-hearted

as he from whom it billowed must

surely have been, Mrs. Claus had

had enough of it one year, and

asked Nicholaus if he’d be so kind

as to get rid of it.  And so early 

one winter, Santa reluctantly

trekked over to the only barbershop

on the North Pole and nervously

asked not just for a trim, nope,

but he wanted a warm shave

and an above the shoulders

haircut.  Well, from here

the story gets a bit sketchy.

Some claim that the one local

barber never got much business,

and therefore hadn’t had much

practice, so it was an innocent

slip of the thumb.  Others go further, 

say it was not so innocent at all, claim

the barber was actually a disgruntled elf, 

who for decades had worked a conveyor

belt in the world’s most famous toy 

factory.  To cut to the quick,

so to speak, the coroner’s

report (and yes, while there

aren’t many deaths in the

North Pole, there is indeed

a lone coroner) reads,

quite simply, “Cause of

Death: Freak Shaving

Accident.”  The big man

bled to death on a barber’s

chair.  At least according to

the coroner.  But I happen

to know that Mrs. Claus

had a thing for a certain

monstrosity of a snowman.

And do you know who, for

the past several centuries

now, has driven that sleigh,

directing those famous

reindeer and magically

dipping himself (without

melting somehow) into

chimneys worldwide to

deliver all of those annual

gifts (and a modicum of

coal chunks) to all the boys

and girls?  You guessed it,

the Abominable Snowman

himself.  And I am also told

on authority that the old lady 

wore white so bright to her 

dead husband’s funeral

that the elves could barely

make her out, what with the 

swirling snow and ice.  And that 

to this very day, she has a

certain lighthearted swagger

for a woman of her, uh stature.  

Oh, she still smells of cinnamon, 

sure, but while before the death 

of her long-espoused Christmas

hero, she’d been a bitter woman

with a salty tongue who’d been

in trouble more than a few times

for harassing those factory elves,

nowadays, word has it, she never

manages to publicly loosen 

the overly perky grin that runs 

between those rosy circles upon

her jowls, and she’s got that light-

hearted pep in her step that 

many call a swagger.  I hear, as

well, that more than just a few of 

the citizens of the North Pole

are extra cautious when she’s

in their vicinity.   Indeed, almost

none of them ever believed it was a 

freak shaving accident after all

that brought about the 

demise of Santa Claus.

And if you think this just

conspiracy, then when 

was the last time you've

heard of a glass of milk

being emptied overnight

on Christmas Eve.  The

Snow Monster is allergic.

Oh, he eats the cookies,

but never takes a sip,

even just to down an

extra dry gingersnap.

And if you look at any

of the letters he writes

to the hundreds of

thousands of kids (and

a bunch of their parents

as well, given that he 

answers every single

piece of mail that comes

his way, just like the jolly

old man would do), you’ll find

the ink smudged almost

to illegibility, as if it were

written by a sobbing lover

or a distraught mother, or

an extra large snow monster

that has gotten a bit too 

close to a warm hearth.

Anyway, so now you know.

But do not tell a soul who

you heard it from, please?