Scared Of Santa

by mrcookieface on December 20, 2004 · 4 comments

in Uncategorized

I can’t imagine anything that was more horrifying to me as a child than to be put on a big bearded man’s lap as he HO HO HO‘ed in my face.

….That is…..until my mom told me about the evil kitchen clown that would bite me if I tried to raid the cookie jar.

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  • Just Plain Bob

    shit, even i’d be scared of the 5th one!

    you gotta wonder, when parents realize their children are getting so miserable and upset, why the fuck do they make them keep sitting for the picture? what goes through their fucking minds?

    “hey, little sally is crying and weeping. let’s force her to sit still while we take a picture”

  • fealty2dahriyah

    or for the nonRX’d moms…

    oh jebus… must make perfect so child may have perfect memories. must find most realistic santa, symmetric tree, faux snow, tinsel… yes yes lots of tinsel….perfect gifts… big loud perfect gifts that will breakdown systematically.

    currently in my family it’s the lutherens vs catholics. and my sister the sinner who wanted to remarry is waging an all out perfection war. I was nearly sacraficed for trying to give my parents their gift early.

    no stepping off the line

  • Shadow Stalker

    What’s going through Mom’s mind?  “I spent all morning wrestling you into those tights/that vest, and it took half an hour to get you into the car and to the mall, now we’ve been waiting in line for two hours behind a screaming kid with a dirty diaper, so you’re going to sit there on Santa’s lap until I get a picture I can send to my friends to show them what a good mother I am.”

    That clown is scary!  I can’ tell if he’s squatting, or what.

  • suitep

    It’s payback time. This is a perfectly reasonable excuse for parents. Hey! It’s Santa! Never mind that he’s drunk, and he smells like urine. You can capture this moment for all time, and drag it out to futher torture your kids as they’re older. Your screaming little tyke in Santa’s lap. Nothing says holidays like terror.

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