(Adapted with the utmost reverence and respect to The New York Sun…)
I am 22 years old. Some of my little friends say there is SantaCon this year. My bro says, “If you see it in hMAG, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a SantaCon?
Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the misinformation of the information age. They believe what they see on the internet, and don’t bother with that which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be bro’s or ho-ho-ho’s, are proving to be little these days. In this depressing universe of ours, man is a mere insect, a pissant, with such narrow intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, measured by his intelligence to be incapable of grasping even basic common sense.
No, Virginia, there is no SantaCon. It cannot exist, as COVID, surging caseloads, and capacity restrictions abound to take from your hollow, basic life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How vapid would you have to be to believe there could be a SantaCon? We are in the midst of a global pandemic. Children can’t even go to school, thus, you can’t go on an epic rager with your squad. And who would this actually help right now? Bar owners themselves scoff at the logistical impossibility—meanwhile, there’s no goodwill generated by goading public officials to dunk on an industry that has already been cutoff at the knees. We admire your childlike faith in the power of pubcrawls, but recommend poetry or romance to make more tolerable your trite existence.
A little science wouldn’t hurt, either…
Ho, Ho, Ho, No, No, No.
We are not part of the con today. pic.twitter.com/pu4Woi3G3H
— The Ale House (@thealehouse1034) December 7, 2019
You shall have no enjoyment, except in Zoom boozing at home or binge watching FAIL videos. The Coors Light you’ve been drinking since childhood will not be replenished.
We can’t even believe we actually had to cover this this year…
You believe in SantaCon! You might as well not believe in facemasks. You and your bro might pay some online scam for an “exclusive all-access pass” to venues that can currently only maintain 25% indoor capacity. But if you cannot see futility in that, what will it take to prove?
Nobody is celebrating SantaCon. No self-respecting bar patron ever truly “celebrates” SantaCon—they endure it, or avoid it. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men ever want to see again. Did you ever see elves bleeding on a snowy street corner, or urinating on the lawn? We have, and the internet has undeletable proof that they were there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the horrors that cannot be unseen in the world.
You tear through a Fireball bottle and try to fill the void inside, but soon find there is a curtain covering the far stall in the bathroom—where not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could enter without themselves adding to the pile of putrid wretch. Only bleach, counseling, dignity can scrub away that curtain view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond.
Was it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.
No SantaCon! Thank God! Be good or be gone forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, may we continue to be rid of that sad rite of seasonal douchebaggery.