A Conspiracy Of Festive Proportions

 

A letter from me, Robbie, the writer.

 
I wrote this about two years ago for an old podcast for which I used to regularly contribute. The most accurate I can be is January 2017. We wanted to branch out and do more than just discuss films on the air, so the host asked us to write an article. This was the only idea I could come up with. I wrote it in about 45 minutes, did not edit it, and sent it in. It was one of the most visited articles on the podcast’s webpage, and it’s because I’m quite obviously a genius. Here it is, in all of it’s unadulterated glory. It’s overdramatic with unnecessary usage of vulgarity. Spelling and grammatical errors abound as I take you through a wild ride that is the relentless murdering of Santa Claus. Thanks. And God bless.”
— Robbie Clark, 10/23/18, 7:04pm
 

I know it’s late January, but did you guys have a good holiday?  Good.  I’m glad.  I didn’t.  And do you know why?  I mean…I got a bunch of good shit.  I spent my Christmas at my girlfriend’s family’s house.  Ate a lot of food.  Saw a couple movies.  But it SUCKED.  Why?  I’ll fucking tell you why.

Have you ever seen The Santa Clause with Tim Allen?  Good.  Here we go.

We all know the story: Man doesn’t believe, man kills Santa, man playfully but sarcastically puts on the hat and coat and delivers presents, man winds up accepting permanent role as new Santa, man regains faith in himself in an ironic twist of fate.  Tale as old as time.

Now have you seen the second movie?  The Mrs. Clause?  No?  I’m not surprised.  In the second installment of this lackluster trilogy that starts strong but finishes poorly (Hi, Kevin Sumlin!), Scott Calvin is hit with the bombshell that he has to get married before the approaching holiday or else he will have to give up his post.  It’s his 8th Christmas or 9th or however many it’s been.  Bottomline: Bernard and Curtis waited till the last minute to tell him, “Oh by the way, find a dame in a month, or else you can’t bring joy to the children of the world anymore.”  They done fucked up.

Of course Mr. Calvin, being the jollily obese man that he is, takes in all in stride and goes on a speed dating rampage to try and find a Mrs. Claus in order to complete the Mrs. Clause.  This was before Tinder, so it must be a difficult picture to paint for yourselves.  But against all odds he finds Juliet before she met Matthew Fox on the Island.  In the end, it all works out.  But wait!!  There’s more.

When Scott arrives at the North Pole in the first movie, there’s no mention of a Mrs. Clause anywhere.  “Oh, but Robbie!  Maybe he had only just become Santa and didn’t get a chance to get married.”  Okay, I can see that, but you’re wrong, and you’re stupid.  When they first meet Scott, no one mentioned how they just got a new Santa.  No one even says anything to the extent of how it’s only been a few years since they got a new model.  No mention of it whatsoever.  So that means one of two godawful things.

The first is that the role of Santa is a revolving door of sorts, so all of the elves expected his passing, and it’s nothing out of the blue for a new guy to show up.  Which means not a single Santa has lasted the decade needed to find a Mrs. Claus.  Which is kind of morbid when you think about it.  “Oh yeah…he’s gonna die soon.  Just be ready for a new Santa.”  But if Scott Calvin had made it this long, and his two head elves only just now told him of this secondary clause in maintaining his job of Cris Cringle, that means they never had any faith in him to begin with.  They were just waiting for his demise.  Can you imagine?  “Oh shit…it’s been 8 years.  I thought he would have cracked his spine by now.  He has a month to get married.”  This just means that they expected him to fuck up at any minute, which is a pussy ass excuse because COMET GAVE HIM A ROPE IN CASE HE FELL OFF A ROOF!  ON HIS SECOND GODDAMN CHRISTMAS!!  Not to mention the fact that all the elves love this guy, and the North Pole is running like a well oiled machine.  They should have known he’d last.  Plus, it’s not like he didn’t have time or anything.  He was told in the first movie that he had the year to come to terms with his new job, and he was due back at the Pole by Thanksgiving.  Which means that in all the years after he had 11 months to hunt for a wife for years.  He even tells Juliet that they’ll have a 3 month honeymoon after he’s done going around the world in far less than 80 hours.  It’s not like the guy doesn’t have free time.  This is bullshit.

The second, and this is the one that makes me absolutely miserable, is that when the mantle of Santa is passed on, the previous Santa, his wife, whatever little Clauses they might have had, all. Fucking. Vanish.  The predecessor has to perish before the successor is selected.  Kind of like the Black Panther (Marvel reference.  Schocker.)  This means that people who were plucked from their lives, either willingly or accidentally, no longer exist, and we can only imagine that all traces of their being have been completely erased from the sands of time.  If the elves noticed the passing of the old Santa, then they surely must have noticed that a chunky, grey haired, joyous woman would have slowly faded into the ether as well.  But no one bats a fucking eyelash, and there’s no mention of it.  At all.  No breath is spent expelling to Santa what actually happens when a new guy takes over.  They just push him into the role, and let him carry on, completely oblivious to the death of the Previous-Claus-And-Company.  They just kept this disturbing secret all to themselves, which is a very selfish thing for elves to do.  And there’s never a point where they ease him in.  He doesn’t get to be Saint Nick for a couple years and then have a sit down with Bernard about what happened then and needs to happen now. 

Santa is arguably the most popular person in the world.  Bigger than the Beatles who are bigger than Jesus.  And these elves just thought they could hide this from the public?  I mean…they can, because they the North Pole in general, but to keep it from Santa himself?  That’s cold.  It makes you wonder who’s really in charge of the whole operation.

Either of these scenarios, as you can see, are insanely dark, and very, very sinister.  People have left their loved ones back on the mainland to go deliver gifts once a year, and if that person dies, then their family never gets to see them again because the fucking disappear.  How sick is that?  What kind of fate is that?  “Yes, you can be Santa, but if you die your family will forget you were ever there.” “No thanks.  Just give me my weenie whistle, and I’m gone.”

Really, whichever of these two is more accurate, I think the worst part is that when Calvin is told he has to find a wife, he never once considers that the dude before him had a wife that eventually got wiped out.  Because of him.  

HOLY SHIT, YOU GUYS!!  Scott Calvin is a murderer.  His bothering the original Santa knocked him off the roof, which killed him.  And then when that guy died, his wife in the North Pole passed on.  Do you guys realize what this means?  It means on Christmas Eve 1994 there was a double homicide that was never investigated, and the killer is still on the loose, masquerading as a giver of toys.  His bloodlust has been suppressed, which means it will soon become unquenchable.  Oh, fuck…I bet Weird Al’s “The Night Santa Went Crazy” was the treatmeant and secret pitch to Hollywood for a fourth and final entry to this franchise.  

I just blew this whole thing wide open as fuck for you.  Somebody must tell Juliet.

So there it is, children.  The thing that ruined my holiday spirit.  Do I enjoy the movies?  Sure.  They’re heartwarming in a way, and they certainly have their charm.  But with this new dynamic introduced into the universe, I fear it’ll be harder to enjoy the movies at this point in time.  But that’s what happens when you open your eyes and open your mind.  Keep asking questions.  Demand to know what the elves aren’t telling us.  Seek out the facts, and siphon out the lies.  Discover the truth.  

That’s it.  I’m out.  Stay woke, bitches.

 
Robbie Clark