The Anti-Santa

Events of the past few weeks have brought to mind my father’s unique sense of humor. He was always one to find the humor where you would swear there was none. I was certainly never able to pull it off. There was the story about his first date with my mother. He went to the apartment she shared with my grandmother and said my Nana was busy in the bathroom, bashing the tiny heads of baby guinea pigs on the side of the tub, then flushing them down the toilet. Just imagine the silence when I told that story in my 7th grade English class. Yet he could tell that story and make it hilarious. It all had to do with the delivery, capturing his perspective, I guess.

I bring this up because one of his best creations was the Anti-Santa, pronounced Anta-Santa. This skinny, bald guy, we were told, came through the front door, gathered up all the presents intended for children who had proven unworthy of the bounty, and went up the chimney, crying “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Sometimes he’d take the stuff out of your stockings, too.

Anyhow, I think the Anti-Santa’s been screwing around with my life lately. Thing is, I don’t know what I did to tick him off. We’re talking seven straight matches here. You’d think I’d been selling puppies to the University’s Medical Research Center or messing around with Ann Coulter. Yes, I could have said nicer things about the Dayton Flyers and the Duke Blue Devils, but top 20!? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

I’m stumped. Really I am. All I ask, Dear Anti-Santa, is for you to go ahead and take my two front teeth if you want them. Just let them win another match or two, please. And soon?