What Does Santa Eat For Breakfast?

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As I pour my bland skim milk
over bland regular Cheerios (not even honey nut!),
I sigh as I think of how bland my mornings in general have been –
Icky cereal with icky milk.
Feeding my dog.
Putting on makeup.
Then I go to school.
Bleh.
But I see the calendar – and Christmas is only a few weeks away!
I can’t help but to ponder… what does Santa eat for breakfast?

We all know that Santa is quite the hefty fellow (to put it nicely),
but I imagine he’d have problems controlling more than just his appetite.
We all know the science behind it –
You lose control in one part of your life, you’re bound to lose it in others.
Teenage stoners usually have bad grades,
Prostitutes usually do drugs,
Sex addicts usually get STDs,
And now Jessica Simpson is usually in movies.
Keeping this in mind, I have a theory.
I think Santa, with his out-of-control eating,
…is also a drunk.

HEAR ME OUT FIRST.

It makes sense, after 100s of years of guzzling all that eggnog.
I bet he has a big mug of it every morning
…along with his piles of perfectly picked pastries. (of course)



I know that he wouldn’t eat (or drink) what some suburban teenager eats,
Having grown up with
bowls filled to the brim with Coco Puffs,
bagels carrying more cream cheese than they can hold,
bread slices smothered in egg and covered in syrup –
all washed down with overly-chocolatey milk
or overly-sugary juice.
I wouldn’t know what Santa eats
Because I grew up
singing the Spongebob Squarepants theme song,
cheering on the Stoop Kid on “Hey Arnold,”
and wishing the Rugrats never turned into awkward teens.
So tell me –
How, exactly, would I know ANYthing about eggnog-related drinking problems?

To be frank,
I’d rather have my bland cereal,
With bland my milk
To accompany my bland mornings
Than to not know where I am -
Having tiny men dressed in green trying to pull me out of my tub,
(which was somehow filled with green frosting)
Over to my dining room chair,
Wiping last night’s cookie crumbs and drool from my shirt,
Just so I can stuff my face
And then fall
Head first
Into my leftovers,
Back into that eggnog-enduced black out.

…I’d really rather not be a drunk who only works one day a year.





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