the santacon diaries.

my sister and i have been frequenting a bar that serves half-priced wine on wednesdays on account of her knowing, if you catch my drift, one of the bartenders. they have even named two drinks after her, one, our last name, and, two, something more commonly ordered by its acronym nwar (or, for those more disgusting daring, my sister’s first name followed by wet and ready). the introduction of these drinks to the menu came after my sister, somehow always unsure of any specific ingredients that she enjoys, continued to ask for something delicious.

on one of the first of these nights spent together drinking we met a guy wearing a black leather jacket who emphatically told us about santacon (for information specific to greensboro or another city’s preparations, instead look here). we promised him that we would attend. on subsequent visits, every time the guy walked by we reassured him, even when his passion become more frightening than intoxicating.

after almost a two month courtship we searched for him in a sea of santas on the second floor of a downtown brewery. when we found him, wearing a leather jacket and matching pants, trimmed with white fur, and a belt with bells hanging from the buckle, he voiced disappointment with our costumes. as santa-on-vacation, i wore a white long-sleeved shirt, a navy tie adorned with tennis players, a tennis vest, tennis shorts, red tights, and carried a tennis racket. my sister, an unholy combination of snowflake and elf, went overboard on the glitter as often is the case.

there was a full day of activities planned so, arriving, as we did, in the evening, we missed the snowball fight, trips to the mall, to liberate santa from his post at macy’s, and strip club, to liberate santa’s candy cane, if you catch my drift, and hours of drinking. i refused to participate in the naughty christmas carols (regardless of my disguise, i can’t justify interrupting a family of four at dinner with suck my balls and lick my asshole fa la la la la la la la la). thankfully, after the first bar, where we exited right before we were likely going to be kicked out, the santas collectively become more demure to match my sensibilities.

forty plus santas (and elves and angels and jesus) canvassed the city, sometimes searching for a bar that could accomodate our numbers. along the way we handed out assorted baubles. cars stopped to shout encouragement or stare in bewilderment. a band watched as the venue suddenly filled with red. on a dance floor, girls in halter tops urged me to smack their asses with my tennis racket. in short, we spread christmas cheer and filled sleeping heads with visions of sugar plums.

after the festivities, eight tiny reindeer navigated our miniature sleigh back to the north pole where i nestled beside mrs. claus, or a very tall elf, as the case may be, who whispered that the stockings were not the only things hung with care, if you catch my drift.

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