How disquieting it is to know the true character of a gentleman in name only,
the one the world calls “good.”
Polished. Charming. Allegedly virtuous.
Behind closed doors?
Less “gentleman,” more “director of a very small, badly rehearsed tragedy
starring only himself, his ego, and a remarkable talent for self-deception.”
It is almost scientific, the way he crafts a public self
gleaming, faultless, polished to the point of absurdity
while the private self skulks in shadows,
clutching half-truths like a toddler with candy.
You witness it, catalog it,
and suddenly, you are burdened with the most inconvenient of tasks:
organizing a one-person, traveling exhibition of the real him
for friends, family, anyone who ever praised him for “integrity” or “charm.”
Well
Santa Claus is not real.
But worse
this Santa is a bad, bad fellow.
The kind who hides coal in your stocking,
eats all the cookies, blames the dog,
and insists it was a generous act.
Yes, generosity according to him: selective,
self-serving, and absurdly performed.
And so begins the tour:
living rooms, dinner tables, group chats, whispered phone calls.
Each reveal delivered with the subtlety of a foghorn,
the flourish of a poet wielding a sledgehammer.
Yodalayhee…
lore and behold, he is a bad, bad fellow.
I will describe the very fabric he is stitched from,
thread by thread,
with the precision of a tailor and the theatricality of a stage director.
Every seam, every flaw, every glittering patch of hypocrisy...
laid bare.
This tour is coming to a house near you.
Tickets are free, the commentary is merciless,
and the cookies…
well, you can keep your own.
I’ve been played, ladies and gentlemen.
Nov 27, 2025
Nov 27, 2025 at 12:57 PM UTC
How disquieting it is to know the true character of a gentleman in name only,
the one the world calls “good.”
Polished. Charming. Allegedly virtuous.
Behind closed doors?
Less “gentleman,” more “director of a very small, badly rehearsed tragedy
starring only himself, his ego, and a remarkable talent for self-deception.”
It is almost scientific, the way he crafts a public self
gleaming, faultless, polished to the point of absurdity
while the private self skulks in shadows,
clutching half-truths like a toddler with candy.
You witness it, catalog it,
and suddenly, you are burdened with the most inconvenient of tasks:
organizing a one-person, traveling exhibition of the real him
for friends, family, anyone who ever praised him for “integrity” or “charm.”
Well
Santa Claus is not real.
But worse
this Santa is a bad, bad fellow.
The kind who hides coal in your stocking,
eats all the cookies, blames the dog,
and insists it was a generous act.
Yes, generosity according to him: selective,
self-serving, and absurdly performed.
And so begins the tour:
living rooms, dinner tables, group chats, whispered phone calls.
Each reveal delivered with the subtlety of a foghorn,
the flourish of a poet wielding a sledgehammer.
Yodalayhee…
lore and behold, he is a bad, bad fellow.
I will describe the very fabric he is stitched from,
thread by thread,
with the precision of a tailor and the theatricality of a stage director.
Every seam, every flaw, every glittering patch of hypocrisy...
laid bare.
This tour is coming to a house near you.
Tickets are free, the commentary is merciless,
and the cookies…
well, you can keep your own.
I’ve been played, ladies and gentlemen.
Chile