Oh Santacon, Oh Santacon, you’re really kind of awful…
Because St. Patrick’s day isn’t enough to satisfy those among us who need to apply a mob mentality to drinking, we have SantaCon. For everyone else, it’s the least wonderful time of the year. On one dreadful day in December every year, hordes of fully grown human beings dress up like Santa Claus, elves, reindeer, or anything else that seems appropriately Christmas-y, and engage in the holiday tradition of getting completely housed in an all day bar crawl. If Santacon elected a political nominee, and obviously it would be Santa Claus, their numbers would be enough to get a respectable percentage in a local election. Hell, maybe national.
But that’s if they had any ambition other than getting embarrassingly tanked. Which they don’t. If they were a force for good, other than a force for good times, who knows what potential they would have? Instead they’re just a walking army of blacked-out drunk adults. They’re like Night of the Living Dead Inside.
If you’re unfortunate enough to work at one of the establishments blessed with their presence, it’s best to just get them what they want as quickly as possible, so that they can leave you alone and go to the next bar. You’re powerless against their numbers. It’s like a village being invaded by vikings or mongolians — keep them happy if you want to live. Don’t look them in the eye, and don’t make them mad. Just let them have their way with your establishment until they’ve had their fill. I don’t care if the guy shouting his drink order at you has throw-up in his santa beard, just put your head down and make some drinks. It’ll all be over soon.
If you’re on the street and you happen to cross paths with them, just flatten yourself up against a wall and hope they don’t see you. They can smell fear. They can also smell tacos, so God help any street vendors along their wretched route. “I nneedssomething to soak up the alcohol,” they’ll say to themselves, as a sizeable chunk of Saint Nicks separate from the herd and go stumbling to the nearest truck.
‘Endurance’ and ‘drinking’ are two words that should probably never go together — like ‘unlimited’ and ‘breadsticks’, or ‘tandem’ and ‘bicycle’ — and yet every year it gets more and more popular. Which I find puzzling.
I’m not even sure how much fun you can have after a while. Going from bar to bar, trying to drink as much as you can is only fun for as long as you can drink. When you go from drunk to way-too-drunk, the party is over. Then you’re just standing there swaying in circles listening to people shout things at each other’s faces, trying to figure out how you got so trashed. “It was the jaeger shots at the last bar,” you slur to yourself.
Then you try to get out your phone to call an Uber but you can’t focus on the screen, and you can’t put your password in correctly because your motor functions have gone to shit. Inevitably, your phone locks you out after too many tries, and you just say “Fuck it, I’ll walk home.” So you leave without saying goodbye to anyone, and you start to walk home. After what seems like an hour of walking, you realize it’s a lot farther than you had initially anticipated, and you’re pretty banged up because you keep running into things, so you just stop. You might throw up around this point, or maybe you’ll just find a bench or a stoop to pass out on. Maybe you’ll do both. If you’re lucky enough to get a cab or an uber that will take you, despite the very real possibility you might puke in his/her backseat, you’ve done about as good as you can do. What’s that? It’s only 7PM? Congratulations, you’ve just been SantaConned.
Does that sound fun? Apparently. To an alarming number of people every year, that sounds like the very definition of Christmas spirit. And by spirit, I do mean alcohol.
But not me. No sir. I’m going to celebrate the season the way baby Jesus intended — by watching Die Hard on tv and drinking homemade boozy eggnog until I get so gassy that I have to lie down.
Yippee ki-yay, Father Christmas.