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The Intresting Truth About Santa Clause
It was the day before Christmas Eve, and everything was disgustingly sweet with holiday joy. I just could not stand it. The walls were strung with lacy snowflakes and strings of paper dolls and popcorn swung from one point to another all through out the house. Some classical music, holiday theme of course, was blaring in the house, children’s’ squeals echoed through out the house mixed with adults sharing small talk about pointless and embarrassing stories about their children. Yep, it was Christmas.
The tree was perched in the corner covered with everything from delicate sliver orbs to large, bulky, homemade, glue covered lumps that were supposed to be decorations. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace and when one peered outside large lacy snowflakes were visible against the pitch darkness. My cousins where playing a game of who can scream louder; obviously, they had too many sugar cookies. It was events like these which forced me to hate the holidays. From everything from people â€˜spreading the joy of Christmas’ to my parents holding out that last shred of hope to convince me that the fat guy in the red suit is real. My family is eve worse. My cousins seem to be from another planet; they do not know they will get hurt if they poke me in the eyes. My aunts and uncles are ok, although they are just like my parents; trying to get me to worship Santa, even when I tell them that if Santa is real, then George Bush is a great president. They just laugh. I am never taken seriously.
Around ten o’clock at night, all of the relatives start to leave. Only my relatives from Minnesota stay the night. Unfortunately, I have to sleep on the couch because my aunt and uncle are sleeping in my bed. I drag a lumpy pillow out of the closet and grab a huge fuzzy blanket off of the couch to make a bed next to the Christmas tree where my family placed out a plate of gingerbread men and a glass of eggnog for â€˜Santa’. My dad is going to be very happy when he finds his treat later. This is going to be a very interesting night.
The clock was striking midnight, its chimes oddly magnified. I lazily opened an eye to see what was up with the clock. What I saw was something I could never forget.
The gingerbread men with their rainbow gumdrop buttons were alive. I sat up to see if this was all real, even though I highly doubted it was. Then I heard a shrill voice shriek, “In coming! Look out! AHHH!!” and then as I turned around I almost got run over by a gingerbread man ridding my little brothers’ new toy airplane. I ducked the plane just before it hit me. More gingerbread men where living in the gingerbread houses that my mother made weeks earlier. They were all either watching TV, wrapping presents or decorating mini Christmas trees in their homes. Others were having what looked like a pool party in the eggnog that was set out. Where they had gotten the inter tubes I do not know. Right before my eyes two of the gingerbread men started to bicker about something. It was hard to make out because all of their talking sounded like arguing budgie birds. I was finally able to make put a few words that they where saying.
“Mabel! I have told you a thousand times! Santa said to wait for him here! That does not mean going to the neighbors to go and use their hot tub!”
The one named Mabel piped up, “Phil-iiiiiiiiiip! Why can’t I? Santa will never know!”
“MABEL! We have to wait until Santa comes! Then we can go, because he is bringing the toy soldiers to keep watch over the kid.”
“Phillip?” Mabel asked.
“What Mabel?” responded Phillip in a slightly tired way.
“By us keeping watch over â€˜the kid’, do you mean the kid that is watching us right now?”
Both of the gingerbread people screamed and ran into the nearest gingerbread house for cover. The only thing that concerned me was that they mention that I was being watched. Watched for what? Not being too concerned, I grabbed one of my favorite books and started to read while curled up on the couch bed that I made myself.
Around three o’clock in the morning I woke up with a start. I must have dozed off while reading, for my cheek was stuck to one of the pages. Once I peeled my face off of the book I wandered into the kitchen that combined with the living room. No more gingerbread men where running around; I did not notice any toy solders either.
Once I got to the kitchen I almost screamed. There was a huge fat bottom covered with red velvet sticking out of my refrigerator. Dark black boots with white fur lining the bottom cuffs of his pants were leaning even more into the refrigerator. But once he heard me, he leaned out and I saw his face; tons and tons of white hair all surrounding two beetle black eyes. He winked at me, fixed his hat and closed the door. He looked at me and said these exact words.
“Young missy, the next time that someone tells you that I am real, please believe them; it is a bit tiring to be sending talking gingerbread men to every non-believers home.“ And with that, he snapped his fingers and left. Not too soon after that I fainted.
Of one thing I was sure when I woke up. Santa has a very weird way of making sure that people believe in him.