The excitement is killing me!

Xmas is almost upon us, and I’m eagerly awaiting the arrival of Papa Noel, that red-cheeked, jelly-bellied, white-bearded, black-belted, watery-eyed, bad-breathed pedarast …
I dunno, but I just don’t like Santa. He bothers me. Maybe it’s that his beard is just so obviously fake, or his gut isn’t really all his, or I know he’s wearing dirty old jeans and a cruddy T-shirt under his red duds. Maybe it’s that his “ho ho ho” sounds forced, or his hands look too young, or I know he’s silently cursing the little pissy-pantsed brats who squash his lap. Or maybe it’s just because I can’t stand the entire Xmas experience. I have sub-zero desire to sing any chipper, cheery, seasonal tunes. I have no desire to go a-wassailing, even if I don’t know what it is. I just know I’d hate it.
Or maybe I just hate it because I haven’t bought anyone anything. “Yet”.
(G)oy to the world.