I’m remembering the night when the childhood dream of Santa died for me. I got up to pee in the wee small hours of a chilly Chris tmas morning and thought I saw Santa putting presents under the tree. The thrill of it caused loins to gird and peepers to pop wide in wonder. Then I saw it wasn’t Santa at all, just Dad in an ill-fitting Santa suit and the horror of it caused me to urinate in the spot I stood paralysed, betrayed and, if you want to know the truth of it, completely heartbroken. I was deeply upset for months, as you can imagine, but came to terms with it in time. Dealt with the blow, as it were.
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Jesus Chris t died, too, the story goes, twenty centuries before I became another human being trying to keep his foothold on this spinningwobbly blue ball. I’d believed in God as much as I’d believed in Santa. Up until last year anyway. As with Santa, my eyes witnessed something they shouldn’t - that God, too, wasn’t all He was cracked up to be.
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Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!
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And what about the Easter Bunny, Magic, Free Will, Meaning of Life, Brotherly Love, Leprechauns and the Crock of Gold at the End of the Rainbow? Why do all the best ideas, turn out to be a Crock of Shit?
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This writing is probably a crock of shit, too. A can of worms.
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