Last year, I journalismed an exposé on the Krampus. He’s this man-goat-demon who accompanies ol’ St. Nick and whips the naughty children. No one had ever heard of him, because mothers generally don’t approve of an eel-tongued creature scaring you so severely that you don’t sleep for a month. But once I unveiled him for the world, Krampus lost his chompers. Now, even everyday people like you can make Krampus cards for Christmas.
You’ll never hear me say this again, so take note: I was wrong. I should not have limelighted the Krampus. He is just a front to cover up an even nastier demon running among us.
This foul beast will break into a home without necessarily obtaining a warrant. And then it will interrogate you. If it thinks you are being uncooperative, it will sit you on a cold concrete floor without pants. If you are forthright with fabricating information, it will crave even MORE answers. Therefore, it will coax you with rectal feeding and waterboarding!
Wait—that’s the CIA. Hah! Thank goodness you can count on those folks to laugh off an honest mistake. They must have been in my mind because so many whiny wusses, like Congress, are all upset about the CIA’s intense desire to protect our right to apathy. But because secret agents haven’t interrogated me personally, I’m not that plussed.
Besides, those fine folks keep us safe from foreign invaders who want to destroy our way of life. Invaders like our Christmas demon—the Belsnickel!
The Belsnickel smuggled itself aboard the Mayflower, the famous ferry upon which all immigrants traveled to America until we invented border fences. It hid itself from the World At Large in a cave deep in the Appalachians. But that was before I read a website that taught me everything I needed in order to become the World’s Leading Expert.
Since prehistoric times, the Belsnickel has wandered into private homes to quiz children on memorized verses, multiplication tables, and how to “log up” to this confounded “Internet thing.” You want to talk harsh techniques? Wrong or poor answers warrant a switch-wuppin’. Correct answers earn candy strewn on the ground; but, if children grab the candy, they get a switch-wuppin’. If at any other point the Belsnickel feels like it, children get a switch-wuppin’.
However, even the World’s Leading Expert has some eensy space left to fill with knowledge. For instance, I don’t have a good read on the Belsnickel’s appearance because the National Science Foundation won’t give me a grant to research it. What I do know is that it is vaguely human-shaped and wears a nondescript mound of fur. It may also have placed one year in the Westminster dog show, unless that was a Newfoundland. (The existing photos are inconclusive.)
I for one do not want this beast tromping into my compatriots’ homes and terrorizing their children. Given the choice between an Unquestionable Good and a Ruthless Investigator who metes out baseless punishments, any upstanding American would choose the CIA. Especially at Christmastime! But thanks to the happy Krampus hysteria I might have maybe unwittingly triggered, folks are too busy hot-gluing sequins and tassles to Krampus’s anatomy to consider proper home and/or Christmas defense!
If I don’t stand up for Christmas in every home from sea to oil-slicked sea, Christmas as the Magi intended it and America perfected it, then no one will.
I didn’t ask for this burden. I preferred living blissfully unaware of the world’s dangers, believing we were safe as houses—which, I learn as I grow older and more handsome, are not exactly safe. Like, at all.
Let me gift you two holiday examples of distinctly UNsafe houses:
- A man in Catoosa County, Georgia, had his house mercilessly burned to the ground by a turkey. In the turkey’s defense, it was being deep-fried in the man’s garage. But that cannot overshadow the fact that your house is also flammable, no matter how macho you cook your poultry.
- In a more chilling example of mayhem, I fought a wall, and the wall won. All I did was unplug a strand of Christmas lights, and next thing I knew, the doorjamb punched me in the face! I still pretend I have the scar on my brow as proof of how vindictive even a rental house can get.
See what I mean? If hearth and home remain unsecure, then nothing will stop civilization from collapsing every December into the Belsnickel’s realm of primal thrills. Words of ancient songs we’ve never understood, like “wassailing” and “figgy pudding,” will crawl from their graves. No one will work for a week or more. The rich will serve the poor, and the poor will reign supreme. We will have uncontrolled mirth, abundance, and drinking in the streets!
Hold on. That sounds pretty enticing, actually. Where do I sign up?
(Photos: Newfoundland dog by Pasteltête2; Belsnickel by Lucas / CC)
December 23, 2014