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Oh Santa, the reason for the day of Christmas.
Oh Santa, who climbed down the chimney of the "Virgin" Mary, carrying a bag of gifts, knowing that Joseph would be gone for an extended period of time doing important carpentry business, and, finding no tree, placed your gifts of rohypnol and chloroform in the mouth and on the face of the "virgin." And then, you, Santa, oh wonderful master who sees us as we sleep, who knows when we wake, you placed your final, most magnificent gift deep between the legs of the "virgin". You blessed the "virgin" with a seed, which grew into your own likeness, a reminder for the "virgin" of the great things which exist in this world. And you, Santa, proved yourself to be gracious, when months later, as Mary swore that the contents her swollen belly must have been a gift from the God who lived high above the city in the mountain, you swooped down from the sky, pulled in your sleigh by nine magical reindeer, and said to Joseph, "This child does indeed come from a fine god," supporting Mary's story, even though you found out that she was far less than a virgin, as the sores did appear on your private, most delicate areas, keeping you from delivering your gifts to other good children around the world.
Your sacrifice is the reason for our celebration of Christmas.
Your bravery through the burning pain.