Merry Christmas

My last post, which while I was writing it, seemed like a comedic tour de force of bathos, erudition, and existential reverie, in the mode of Beckett, instead was a dense, recursive jungle of syntax. I realized this last night when I was talking to Jami, who had attempted at least twice to move through it but was repulsed. She promises she'll keep trying. She's lovely and wonderful, but I know that it may just not be worth the effort. I still like it, though; it is my grotesque child.
Here's the gist: a verse is sung in a holiday hymn where people, who've made a good faith effort to come for a train, discover that there was only one train and that it has moved on without them. You might as well sing a hymn about Vladimir and Estragon waiting for Godot, except that this would be "just missing Godot."
Let's not start that again.
Here I've put up three Christmas card images I drew 7 years ago. One image I couldn't find, but which I have a paper copy of somewhere in my stored papers at the apartment, is of Santa swigging back a Coke, captioned overhead: "Congratulations! It's December 26th and you've just finished laying off the last of 20,000 elves - the stock will go through the roof! In the Spirit of the holidays, have a Coke and a Smile."
These three depict Santa as Lecher; as falling asleep with the remote in one hand, his cigarette having fallen out of the other onto the carpet where it'll make a nice bonfire; and as Nietzschean anti-hero, shaking his fist at the heavens.
What is this antipathy I have toward Santa? What has made him the object of my shadowy projections?
Oh Yeah.
Well more fodder for my counseling session.