Santa Con isn’t something I can replicate with words; it’s neither a good cause nor a good idea; it’s all around poor-planning and represents everything I loathe in life. And yet, it lives on.
“I consider it a city-wide rape-alert,” an astute friend recently told me.
Personally, I think of Santa Con and—I can’t even help it—I immediately think of activities I’d rather do. Such as getting sodomized by a spiked bat, or being taken to the top of The Freedom Tower and forced to bungee jump. Also a plane crash. No, no, you didn’t mishear me. I would willingly get into a plane crash if, and only if, it would avoid my seeing a single Santa Con.
I find it odd that we New Yorkers have even allowed such a repugnant spectacle to persist. Rarely is it ever a good idea to invite all New Yorkers, under the age of 30, to partake in any one thing. It happens, but at least these alcohol-laden shit-storms are usually under the guise of some sort of holiday or celebration, such as the Halloween Parade or New Years. Santa Con is no such thing. It is the only event known to man whose SOLE purpose and reason for existing is to get drunk. And to think, we could’ve all been exposed to LARGE SODAS.
But this isn’t my only concern; Santa Con brings yet another particularly disturbing issue to light: that of women thinking they look cute in Santa Clause outfits. It’s a gross misconception, and a sad one at that. To let these women roam the streets freely, thinking—TRULY BELIEVING—that they look hashtag adorbz. How about we stop perpetuating this fallacy? How about reminding them that they are all hashtag dressed the same?
Dear reader, I ask you this: Are day drinkers ever fun? And the answer to that is no, typically no they’re not. But they are manageable. Because they’re sporadic and anomalous, they’ll react to your “fuck you die die eat shit DIE” dirty look. Like I said, they’re manageable. They will notice your dirty look, acknowledge it, and take it in stride, perhaps even encouraging those around them to quiet down. By contrast, Santa Conners are less humane and not sporadic at all. When they congregate, they don’t fuck around. In fact, they tend to outnumber the normal, respectable civilians on the street, which means that our once-effective stink-eye now carries the weight of Donatella Versace’s daughter—that is to say: none.
And so, in the spirit of issuing a final moratorium on Santa Con, I ask you all to join me on December 14th. As young adults gather in from New Jersey and Long Island to demolish their livers and deface the image of Santa Clause, I will be posted on a roof in Soho, like a modern-day non-violent sniper. I will have lasers, water guns, a megaphone, and sharp pebbles. Join me in the cause to bring down Santa Con.