Santa Should Be Dead

Apropos of Christmas music blaring way too freaking early in the freaking year, there's a near-decapitated Santa Claus standing just to My right.

I'm serious. Stupid mannequin's head has an 88-degree cant to the right, eyes looking 2.5 feet in front of its...feet. Cheery-red suit, off-white trim, glazed expression of merriment changed into a frozen mask of "What the hell?" faux-amusement at the fact that its neck is damn near broken. Exudes charm like a rotten fish shines: catches the eye, revolts nonetheless.

Like Our government. The Santa Claus of Our lives is damn near headless. (Yes, I'm referring to The Larva and its minions, which are smaller versions--albeit more poisonous--than The Jellyfish and its minions.) The jolly good cheer of Our government that was all fake all the time, its fantastical largesse to those who were on its "good list"--edited here to "good for nothing but parasitism" list--combined with its perversion of Santa's signature laugh to a listing of the three professions working in Our government (to wit: ho, ho and ho) and seasoned by the enormous sloth-based greed of Our folks to do anything in order to suck Santa's...teat...is long past time to die.

Re-read at your leisure. I'll still be here.

I'll (finally) cut to the chase: We should decapitate Our government. Short of loping off its head like a samurai slo-mo replay, We should at least break its neck. The top """""leaders""""" in Our government are worth more as mulch than as executives. They are more landfill than anything else, drawing salaries and later pensions that dwarf any conceivable multiple of their best contributions, if they ever make any. We can break them. We have to.

As long as We allow an outdated, incorrect and morally vapid fantasy about what Our government should be to dominate Our thinking, We are dooming Ourselves to pittances rather than progress, to victimization rather security and to servitude instead of mastery. We'll keep waiting for one that day a year when some benevolent illusion of generosity tosses the labors of someone else into Our laps and spending the other 364 days wallowing in muck, dreaming of that one magical day.

People, they are all magical days. There is no Santa Claus, for what We think of as a jolly elf We need to charm for "gifts" that keep Us servile is nothing but a money-hungry rapist with an overworked press office.

Time for Santa Clause to die.



The Jenius Has Spoken.