Why I’m on the NAUGHTY LIST!

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by Joe Buonfiglio

“Why does some fat bastard in a red suit get to pass judgment on me as to whether I’m nice enough to get toys or naughty enough to get coal for Christmas?! He smells like sugar cookies and has flying venison-dinners-in-waiting, and that in and of itself is good enough to render me a slave to the demands of his magical list on an annual basis?  As my parents, did you drink this Kool-Aid of child servitude?  Have you bought in to your progeny being virtually owned by some morbidly obese toymaker calling the shots in the life of your innocent tyke?  Have you no pride?  Have you no shame?”

Oh yeah. Coal again.

Yup, that was me as a child railing against the whole “Santa” thing in the wake of what I saw as a diminishing of my rights, a demeaning assault on my dignity, and not just “The Man” trying to keep me down, but “The Fat Man.”

That was then. And now?

I’m STILL on Santa’s naughty list.  However, as a person who is a self-declared Absurdist, the concept of a guy on heart-attack watch being able to get his fat ass down chimneys and deliver toys to all the “nice” boys and girls in the entire world in a single night seems, well, normal.

So with that in mind…


Shaving the Trojan logo into the back hair of all the chimpanzees at the zoo as the result of losing a Molson Golden Ale-fueled bet doesn’t exactly make me a contender for TIME magazine’s Person of the Year.

Healthy enough to make the distance from my car to the Cinnabon completely walkable, but consistently taking the last handicapped parking spot at the mall simply because it saves me an extra thirty-three seconds walking back from the food court reduces me to an immoral bastard of the highest order. In other words, NOT nice; not nice at all.

Scaring the hell out of really young kids in potty-training mode by telling them my story of how monsters like to crawl up your butt while you’re “bakin’ muffins” on the toilet.

Farting in church.

Farting in church during midnight mass at Christmas.

Farting during a funeral.

Farting during my dad’s funeral.

Pissing in the gas tanks of all of the town’s patrol cars, and then calling 911 to report a man naked in the mayor’s yard strumming his penis and singing the theme song to Goldfinger.  And then, actually being the man naked in the mayor’s yard strumming his penis and singing the theme song to Goldfinger.

Actively working to discover the truth as to how many pennies you can shove up the ass of a kidnapped neighbor before she dies of copper poisoning. (The answer is 458, by the way.  You’re welcome.)

And finally, spitting in the Christmas-cookie batter at the old folks’ home to which I’m forced to do community service over the holidays in light of my abominable arrest record as a public-urination habitual offender.

So yes, as with every year since the Yuletides of my earliest childhood memories, once again this year I have seen my name embedded deep within the “Naughty” column of St. Nick’s damnable inventory of reward-and-punishment-destined offspring.

Yes, my grasp of absurdity trumps the absurd nature of your absurd existence under the guise of your faux reality, and I will not succumb to the rules of your irrational realm. In defiance, I’m downing my 23rd Guinness Stout Ale.  So fuck you, Fat Man!  If I’m a Naughty, then so be it; I’m confident I’m in good company this year … again.

Now, about this whole “virgin birth” thing…


© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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