T’was the night before Christmas…

T’was the night before Christmas, when all through our shack

Not a drink was a-pouring—not a gin or a Jack.

The tumblers were set on the counter with care,

In hopes that Jack Daniels would visit this bear.


The children were rattled with sugar and cake.

They’d whipped me with belts just to see if I’d shake.

And Mama sat by with a glazed look devoid

Of sorrow or sympathy—brain opioid.


When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter:

A raccoon attacking our garbage—to scatter!

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

And yelled at my dad: “Have you still got that rash?


“If you are not still scratching your ass and your balls,

Perhaps you’d be up for one more of your squalls.

You see, there’s a beast in our yard, in the snow…

Devouring the peels in the garbage, you know.


“I was keeping those peels so they’d turn into booze.

That project, I’m sure, to you isn’t news.

And this tick-riddled vermin is wrecking my wine

So get out there, dad, and, well, get it in line.


“By which I mean beat it with shovel or stick

Or something from Walmart, you Langleyite hick.

Without that old compost, we won’t have Merlot.

And that, my dear dad, will totally blow.”


So stuck on this problem was I that I failed

To see the weird thing that had suddenly sailed

Into view in my window—first far and then near:

A miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reinbeers.


You got it, my fellows, my chums, my old drunks.

It wasn’t a sleigh pulled by reindeer, you lunks.

In front of the driver, whose eyes glowed e’er quicker,

Were eight sexy bottles of premium liquor.


And Santa, my friends, held his whip up to bear!

His veiny nose bursting with snot in the air.

More rapid than eagles his reinbeers, they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!


“Now Lager! Now Lambic! Now Dunkel and Wheatbeer!

On Pale Ale! On Pilsner! On Marzen and Altbier!

To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!

Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!”


And then in a twinkling, he got out a gun

And aimed at the raccoon, who started to run!

He said, “I like cooking, and so does Ms Claus.

Especially when she can chop off the paws.”


Thus warping my picture of Santa forever,

This weird-ass old bugger proceeded to sever

The head of the raccoon, without even stopping

To slide down our chimney and disgorge his shopping.


“That’s that,” said my dad. “You’ve wrecked it all for us.

The children’s belief was already quite porous.

And when you espied him, he saw he’d been made.

Nice going, you furball. Now you’ll have to trade


Our alcohol money for toys and for dolls

Our Bailey’s for ponies, our Broker’s for balls.

And all ‘cause you had to sit here on this ledge

Determined to out Santa Claus and his sledge.”


“Not true!” did I shout. “I was nowhere near there

Until that raccoon started looking for pears!

And I thought you’d just go out and give it a swat,

But that psychopath killed it with nary a thought!”


“That psycho was Santa,” my mum at last said.

“We needed his presents much more than a dead

Raccoon, don’t you think? You indecorous bear—

What business have you on that window ledge there?”


When all of a sudden, the rooftop went thump!

That bastard had come back with presents to dump!

His fat ass came shimmying right down the chimney

The raccoon blood drying and coating him thinly.


He spoke not a word but went straight to his work

And despite wearing chaps he did not even twerk.

And pulling a finger across his thick throat,

He gestured a threat, if ever we spoke!


He sprang to his sleigh, to his beers gave a whistle

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim as he left with a zoom,

“Merry Christmas to all, except that fucking raccoon.”


6 special treats to put you on Santa’s list tonight

My Fellow Inebriates,

Tonight’s the big night, and whether we have the faith my friend Scarybear has in Santa or we’re just maintaining an elaborate and costly ruse that will one day shatter our pre-tweens’ faith in us, most of us are leaving a treat out for the big guy.

So what’s on the snack menu?

Why Santa Has a Naughty List


  • 1 oz gin
  • 1 oz amaretto
  • 1 oz banana liqueur
  • ½ oz grenadine
  • Sprite to taste

Add gin and amaretto to an ice-filled Collins glass. Add sprite, then grenadine, then banana liqueur.

Grade: B-

Overly sweet; let’s hope Santa has his insulin with him when he knocks this back. The elves might like it, but it might cause too many pee breaks for their boss’s liking.

Black Santa

  • 1.5 oz vodka
  • ¾ oz coffee liqueur
  • ¼ oz mint schnapps

Mix with ice, then strain into a martini glass.

Grade: B

Nice balance between the coffee and mint with a vodka kick laying the foundation. The only downside is it won’t stay cold for Santa.

Candy Cane Cocktail

  • 1 oz vanilla rum
  • 1 oz Godiva white chocolate liqueur
  • 1 oz peppermint schnapps
  • Candy cane garnish

Shake the booze in a cocktail shaker with ice, then strain into a glass. Garnish with a candy cane.

Grade: B+

Yummy, with candy on the side for the under-aged elves. On the negative side, it won’t stay cold, but on the plus, it’s so delicious it doesn’t matter.

Sugar Cookie Jell-O Shots

Grade: B

Even more yummy, but requires prep—too much prep time, planning and ingredients, all of which defeat this furry alcoholic. Worth it if your mum will do the work. On another note, the kids might consume it by mistake and—voila—easy bedtime, parents.


Grade: B+

Plus: You can put out a cooler for Santa by the stockings and leave him some nice, cold brews. Minus: Santa’s leftovers look a bit seedy the next day when the kids wake up.

Bottle of red wine

Grade: A

Include a stopper and a paper bag so Santa can take it with him and continue imbibing on his sleigh. He’s not really driving, right? It’s Rudolph doing all the sighting, so you just have to make sure that little reindeer doesn’t get any. Put an anti-reindeer sign on it and you’re cool.

Of course I’m not hedging my bets. Not really.

My Fellow Inebriates,

I was still recovering from my parents’ insensitive revelation that Santa’s been pretend all along, when my friend Scarybear went all apeshit at me on FB.

Scary thinks there’s no way anybody’s parents could ever deliver the swag Santa does.

I had thought that too, especially about my parents, who are always chasing clients for payment, saying the sky is falling and that we’ll be on bread and water soon.

I really want to believe that Santa’s real.

But it’s hard not to compile evidence now that the belief bubble’s been popped:

We have no chimney. How does he get into our house without doing a B&E?


Santa’s everywhere. Lots of them are fake. Maybe all of them are fake.

"Those ones are fake. The real one's real."

Why do my parents get sneaky and secretive just before Christmas?

"I don't know. Because tax season's coming?"

This is a honking big planet. How does Santa do it all in one night?


I think Scary would be a good fit for the Tea Party. He’d probably be a good Flat Earth guy, too, if Star Trek hadn’t won him over already. His suspension of disbelief transcends any and all inconvenient information, leaving him free to believe whatever the hell he wants, and, just like all good believers, he knows it’s unquestioning faith that anchors the whole thing.

But what if he’s right? What if Santa’s for real and I’m going to miss the boat with my cynical questioning? OMG.

Okay, well, if I’ve messed everything up with Santa, there’s still another guy…and he comes tomorrow. YEAH!! Hanukkah Harry!…

Dear Hanukkah Harry,

I have a bad feeling I’ve been blacklisted by Santa, so I’m wondering if it’s too late to become Jewish. I’ve heard there are a few hoops to jump through, but maybe I can do them after New Year when I have more reading time.

I hear you visit for eight days rather than one, Harry, which makes me wish I’d known about you sooner. I’m really sorry I’m not Jewish yet, but if you don’t mind my waiting until next year to contact a rabbi, here are some little requests:

  • Day One: Smirnoff vodka
  • Day Two: Macadamia nut liqueur
  • Day Three: California Cult Classics Chardonnay
  • Day Four: Case of Cariboo
  • Day Five: Chairman’s Reserve Spiced Rum
  • Day Six: Blue Curacao
  • Day Seven: Bacardi 151
  • Day Eight: Jagermeister

I’m not really sure how you operate, Harry, or whether it’s cool to ask for Hanukkah booze. (I know it’s okay to ask Santa because he often looks inebriated.)

Lastly, if you know Santa, please don’t tell him I asked for all this stuff because I don’t want him to think I’m hedging my bets. Which I’m totally not—I asked for different booze from you—so it’s all good, right?

Cheers, Harry, and thanks for reading my last-minute letter. I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you before. Sometimes my parents keep valuable information from me.

Yours truly,