War on Christmas - Day 2: The Elf on the Shelf

This is by far the most terrifying Christmas "tradition" to which I have ever been privy, barring only perhaps my equally as recent education on the "Krumpus," Santa's devilish, puckish companion who would beat naughty children and pluck the worst of the bunch from their homes to carry off in his sac to sell into slavery, whilst the benevolent Santa left treats for the goodly of the group.

No, this is by far worse. At lease the old Germanic folks knew the point of religion was to scare you into submission through idle threats. Sometimes they would even dress up and rattle through the streets on Christmas Eve to make a point of it. It was open hostility. It was real and visceral, and you could fight the demon but you would lose because his mission was sanctioned. The Krumpus was a foe you could wrap your mind around, a boogieman.

The Elf on the Shelf is the James fucking Bond of Christmas espionage. He's a mindfuck, wrapped in a Rambo, wrapped up in red felt and plastic.

The "tradition" of the Elf was started in 2005, and flows as thus:

1. You buy the Elf and give him a name. Ignore whatever life he may previously have had. This is slavery. You are his life now, and he will know it.

2. The Elf receives his magic. Once named, the Elf is endowed with the power to fly back the North Pole every night to report a family's good and bad deeds to Santa for auditing. He is like a magical IRS agent.

3. When he returns just before the family wakes up, he hides in a different location about the house. Ostensibly, parents move the doll. Children are then to search the house for their maniacal foe. He is a terror, an unholy practitioner and agent of the dark arts, tasked by his True Master with reporting the misdeeds of others. He is a professional stoolie.

4. Children shit their pants in fear.

5. The Elf cannot be touched. This is the kicker: his magic is said to vanish if you ever touch the Elf. His mission cannot be foiled. Should his real loyalties to that fat Turk Khris Kringle be revealed, one cannot eliminate him for fear of reprisal. Santa will know that his double-oh has been compromised. The only compensation is that the Elf will be compelled to report on the good actions he witnesses and any special requests made to him by the children as a "Christmas Wish."

6. He watches you all month, then disappears until he is pressed into servitude next year. Dobby doesn't get a freakin sock when this is all done, oh no. After December 25th, your little Elf "flies back to Santa" until he's needed next year. That means the "farm upstate" if a family of raccoons makes it into your attic some time in the next year.

This is terrifying. It's all psychological torment, without any of the fun of beating children or preparing to sneak-attack the Krumpus with your friends, only to end of putting Papa in the hospital with minor lacerations and a weak concussion. This Elf has diplomatic immunity and you can't touch him, even though he's a treacherous little shit your parents brought home.

Oh, and until they introduced arying skin colors and put lipstick on some last year, the way you made one a girl was by slapping an extra $14.95 skirt on the boy version. I'm as progressive as a lesbian in a Dutch bakery full of biracial libertarian atheists, but explaining transsexualism to a 5 year old is not the kind of thing I want slapped on my arrest history.

On the Easter Bunny

When I was three or four, my mother promised me that she would never knowingly lie to me. She felt this was important for a child to know.

The next day I asked her if the Easter Bunny was real.

"Well, what do you think?" she stammered, praying to everything on high that I would somehow provide her with an out.

"I don't think he's real," I said. "No bunny is six feet tall with a plastic head."

On Hand Turkeys

When I was in grade school we actually drew some hand turkeys a few times. Sure, some kids would free-hand theirs, and that was fine too, but we were allowed to do pretty much anything we wanted with them. Add little hats and belt-buckle shoes, what have you.

But I was an odd child.

I knew how feathers worked. They were layered, with different colors and patterns. No matter how anyone else wanted to draw theirs, I knew my turkey wasn't right, at least as far as turkeys went.

So I would sit there for hours, adding shorter and thinner feathers between the finger lines of my hand turkey, brown with dark outlines and little red arrowhead tips, until my turkey was some kind of overly rounded, misshapen turkey-ball.

I'm sure Purdue farms would love to get their hands on my turkey hands, genetic modification permitting.