(Wrote this a few years ago. My theory still stands so I thought it worth posting here. Enjoy!)That fuckin ball of dough. He's using us all, that fat little yeast infection. You know he and Santa are fucking, right. Because who does the big red guy get to poke every goddamn time he comes to town? The Pillsbury Doughboy, that's who. And how many other ambiguously fictitious icons of faith get to poke the bloated aborted bagel? None. Not one. Not the Easter bunny, not the tooth fairy, not the great pumpkin. Not cupid, not Jesus, not even Elvis gets to make the little piggy squeal. And we've been watching them go at it for years, and nobody has so much raised an eyebrow. Those goddamn adorable commercials every year, where the juicy little porkpie gets stabbed right in the gut by Mr. Cocaine-Moustache's extended digit, and we look on in blissful ignorance while they wave the whole affair around in our faces.
I know what you're thinking. "The Easter bunny doesn't get any lucious baked goods, angry cynical girl!" Fuck you, okay, because I may be angry and cynical, but that little wonder bread embryo is fucking Santa right up the ass, and we're all helping him do it.
That's right, I said it. and I'll say it again. We've all been merrily decking our balls all over the place for Santa, and what do we leave as a final object of sacrifice to the mysterious red man who loves our children and brings us wonderful things as long as we don't watch him do it?
Cookies.
"But why Santa?" you ask, oh dear, unenlightened one. It's simple strategy: popularity and access. From all the mythical hoopla, Santa is the most widely recognized symbol of idolatry in the world next to the Big Guy himself, and I think we all know how often he makes appearances. If one of God's workers went to a public place and invited children to sit on his lap, he would be shipped to rome in several economy-size matchboxes, with no return address. But every year, we chuckle with nostalgia and shove terrified children over to the strange, dingy man at the mall with gin on his breath and no teeth, to rattle off their hopes and dreams. Enter: Santa. And enter Santa he does, every year. and we encourage him with our unending supply of Pillsbury cookies and cakes and lovely treats of every sort, all at the merry and mirth of that doughy little Hitler.
But not me, you pasty little slut. I won't put cookies out for your overstuffed codependent lover this year, oh no. I'll put a candy bar out. I'll leave him a pack of smokes. I'll treat him to a bowl of melon balls. And when you and your flaky little minions rise up like Mickey's broom shards, I'm gonna get a big blue robe and a pointy fuckin hat and sorcerize your fuckin muffins off.
You won't get me, Doughboy. You won't get me.
-a.w.
