Death to Santa

Like most progressive initiatives, the War on Christmas began harmlessly enough as an overdue assault on commercialism run amok. (Like all progressive projects, the war soon escalated on many fronts--and never mind that the folks who today insist that Christmas be celebrated as a purely secular holiday are the direct descendants of the folks who once grieved publicly over the shrinking of Christ in Christmas.) The original criticism had merit. To many, Christmas is little more than a month-long mall crawl, and the central symbol of this orgy of getting and spending is, of course, Santa Claus, the jolly old elf of legend who perhaps merits a long second look.

Last Christmas, a useful idiot named Evander French, Jr., principal of a middle school in Winchester, Massachusetts, took that look and upped the ante by cancelling a class trip to see Miracle on 34th Street. His grounds? To some, Santa Claus is an offensive symbol, and the Christmas movie classic about a kindly old gent who may or may not actually be Santa was "incompatible with our curriculum, which must be for everybody." A few malcontent parents had complained about the outing, so French had "reviewed their concerns," found them viable, and aborted it.

Abortion wasn't his only option. He might have excused those children unlucky enough to have such self-important parents from the screening, but that would have been too obvious. He might have shown courage and laughed in those parents' faces, but that would be asking too much. Shuffling timidity is the role of useful idiots today.

Or maybe French wasn't timid. Maybe he's a vicious PC bully in Mr. Rogers wear. If his curriculum, as he claims, is for everybody, would he stop teaching evolution as fact if parents objected? Would he pull Heather Has Two Mommies from his library shelves or scrap diversity indoctrination? Or sex "education?" Would he abort a field trip to see An Inconvenient Truth? Many parents (if not most) would find one or all of the above offensive, so if the answer is no, then we know who and what French is: another junior officer in the progressive Newthink Gestapo.

But then I thought things through and encourage you to do the same. Maybe French was right.

Maybe Santa is a deserving target. So this Christmas season, I'm calling for, if not the assassination of Santa Claus, his immediate removal, by any means necessary, as a holiday force.

Because let's face it--Santa Claus is white. He's surrounded by white twenty-four-seven. You can't get any whiter. And his origins are European, which won't do. For that matter, he's a he, and appears to be defiantly heterosexual. He forces Mrs. Claus to bake year 'round in an isolated North Pole kitchen. He's a saint of the Catholic church--or based upon one, which is just as bad. He's fat and happy about it. He eats and drinks anything he sees in private homes (trans fats included), arrogantly assuming it's for him. He invades these homes, often through carbon-spewing chimneys. He wears fur! He unfairly divides our children into discriminatory categories like "naughty" and "nice," rewarding the "nice" with gaudy toys that may contain lead paint and punishing the "naughty" with lumps of fossil fuel. He exploits our reindeer friends, forcing them to fly around the world at unsafe speeds and make reckless rooftop landings. He keeps slaves--and not just any slaves, but elves--little people!--an unprotected and defenseless class made to labor ceaselessly in the production of his habit-forming products. He insists that small children of both sexes sit on his lap and clearly enjoys it too much. "Ho-ho-ho" indeed! (And we shamed Don Imus for saying "ho" once.) And for crying out loud, he shamelessly smokes tobacco (and who knows what else?) in a big old pipe. Publicly.

So if we think it through, there's nothing good to say about him. This year, it's time to say "Enough!" It's time to make a stand. To hell with Santa Claus, enemy of the people! All hail to the Evander French, Juniors of America, heroes of the New Class and guardians of our Brave New World.

Barack's Better Angel

Barack's Better Angel

It is Monday, November 2nd, twilight in Washington, D.C. In the Oval Office, the President is alone, studying his reflection in a large wall mirror as he practices the latest version of his Historic Hands-Across-the Water Speech that he will deliver next month in Copenhagen. Face right, scan the teleprompter, lift the chin, pause, face left, scan the teleprompter, lift the chin...he has a gift for this. In the background, three televisions whisper. One runs a story about a ship seized by the Israelis that contains a huge shipment of Iranian arms bound for their puppet Hamas. A second tells of the brutal suppression of a street march in Tehran and a third--the one the President is keeping one eye on--shows himself, campaigning as only he can, trying to snatch the bacon of the bearded governor of New Jersey from the fire of tomorrow's election.

"We will reach out...with an open hand..." he intones.

"Barack!"

"...to all those...who do not clench their fists..."

"Bara-ack!"

The President starts, looks around, but he remains alone. "Who's there?" he calls, a trifle fearfully. "Jeremiah?"

"Barack, cut the crap. It's not Jeremiah and it's sure not the the ghost of George Bush. It's me, your better angel, and it's time to listen up. First--and I shouldn't have to tell you this--whatever happens from now on, it's not George Bush's fault. You're starting to annoy even me--whose job it is to be on your side--with this Bush stuff. Listen to yourself. Economy's in the crapper--blame George. Putin's disrespectful--blame George. Michelle's butt is as big as Vermont--it's all George Bush's fault. For your own sake, cut it out--but that's not why I'm here. This is a reality check. Forget about health care, this is about life care. I want to talk about Iran.

"But...but what does Iran have to do with greenhouse gases...and my pretty new green economy?"

"Pay attention, pal, or pretty soon you won't have an economy--green or otherwise--to tinker with. Job one for any president is defense--of the Constitution and the nation--and you're botching it. Did you see the news? Israel--you know, that funny little country that you wish would go away--seized the largest single shipment of arms in history today. Those arms were from Iran, on their way to the nutballs of Hamas. Iran is making a monkey out of you, and therefore your country. Like Hitler in the 'Thirties, to pick just one 20th century horror, Ahmadinejad and the mullahs have announced in no uncertain terms what they intend to do to Israel and, when they can, to us. Why not take them at their word? And let me tell you, sweet talk isn't going to help you. Europe's not going to help you. Russia's certainly not going to help you. Truth is, except for that pesky Israel, you're pretty much on your own.

"So it's time to cowboy up, Bones--peace has never been the natural state of mankind. All this wishing, whining and whistling past the graveyard by you and your minions is...unseemly. Someday maybe we'll beat our swords into plowshares and the lion will lie down with the lamb, but not today. The way to deal with Iran is not to oil up, flex your pecs and kick sand at Israel--as you had Hitperson Hillary do again today. But I know how your mind works. Israel won't hit you back. It's a lot easier to slap around your friends than to stand up to your enemies.

"I know you've been busy, but do you know what else Iran did today? Once again, the mullahs beat the living bejesus out of street demonstrators, and do you know why? To prove to you--that's right, you--that there is no internal tipping point. They plan to stay in power, get nukes and use them--end of story. My advice, Bones, is to stop practicing chin-sets in the mirror and read the writing on the wall beside it.

"After that, check out the hallway. See that guy in uniform sitting there, the one with all the ribbons? He's not a left-over Hallowe'en decoration, even though he's strung with cobwebs. That's McChrystal, your hand-picked general--the one you hired to implement your strategy. Remember--you met him on the tarmac in London between red carpet walks? Remember that strategy, and all your stern words about a war of necessity? That wasn't so long ago. Nothing's changed except the facts on the ground. Those have grown uglier and need your attention. Meanwhile, that poor guy's been sitting there since Labor Day, waiting for you to stop rehearsing Hamlet.

"So that's it for now, Bones. For God's sake, buck up! Give the poor man what he needs to do what you told him to do, then go back in your office--and it's not really your office, so don't get too comfortable--call Netanyahu--it's tomorrow in Jerusalem, but he'll take your call--apologize for all the baiting and bullying and ask him how you can help, because my guess is you're going to need a friend in Israel before too long."