It's that time of the year again folks; the succulent juicing of the Western economy by the hand of business clad, cigar-chomping corporatists, throwing bones of greed and envy as the masses flock in typical fashion to the corporate parlors, in search of their annual fix.
Their children, indoctrinated from an early age to buy into the idea of an obese, sherry-goggled, borderline paedophiliac, who somehow finds the time to grant them their materialistic wishes once a year, are primed for life in their quest for consumerist fantasy.
Never mind sitting them in the yard with a simple stick - an exercise in which a child's naturally expansive imagination could provide hours of entertainment. No, these days we needlessly inundate them with brightly colored lumps of plastic that leave nothing to the imagination, other than, well...brightly colored lumps of plastic. They'd be more useful to a child jammed down their insipid parent's throats, outside in the blood-stained snow of Christmas morning, with a bulldog slowly gnawing at their cold, blue, rigor-mortice ridden ankles. Children are the creators of our future; and there's a price to pay for mediocrity.
At the end of each year, we sit around the table, desensitizing our surpressed emotions, ones which cry out to be heard in the pains of every day life, while at the same time, with clenched teeth of false content, we promote so called external happiness through souless offerings of gadgets and gizmos.
For the child, what happens after the inevitable unveiling of the falsehood of Santa's magical existence? They are merely cut loose from the gallows of deception - their soulless, conformist, cosumerist existence amplified by a false tale of almost devilish qualities. All the while, the rich corporatist suckers of Satan's cock are licking their secretarial-discharge-stained lips with glee. They might as well strip us naked from the waist down, and read out a list of ways in which they're going to plow us into rectal oblivion.