Friday, December 23, 2016


Is it me or did all of the other reindeer seem like colossal assholes? There they were in their ivory towers laughing and calling poor Rudolph names. Why? Because he was a little different. And one thing assholes can't stand is anything different. It makes them uncomfortable, conjures up feelings of inadequacy, makes them feel like if they let this stand, the floodgates will bust wide open. Before long their perfect little whitewashed lives will come crumbling down. Pancake houses will get converted into mosques, lollipops will be taken out of kid's hands and replaced with dirty needles and teeners of cocaine, actual jazz played by actual black people will drown out the Biebers, Perrys, and Grandes of the holly jolly world. Oh the horror.

What were these names they called poor Rudolph anyway? I venture to guess they were of the low hanging fruit variety that people of inferior imagination naturally reach for: freak, hippie, queer, stupidface, dicknose, gingernozzle, all of the standards.

And who are they to talk with names like Dasher and Dancer, Prancer and Vixen? Seems pretty obvious that Prancer is repressing a multitude of sexual and emotional desires, terrified to be his true self, living in constant fear of his neo-nazi neanderthal of a father breaking out the belt. Do reindeer wear belts? Prancer's dad does. And it's only a matter of time before Vixen starts dancing on The North Pole just to scrape together enough Santabucks for her daily fifth of syrup and carton of candy cigarettes.

Yet Rudolph continues to take the high road. He does his job, he guides the team, yearning for the day he can retire to a white sandy beach in Hawaii. We can only hope he doesn't snap one of these foggy nights and drive that sleigh right into the ground.

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