He is the corpulent, gluttonous apotheosis of our hegemonic hierarchical hypocrisy, peddling the shimmering mirage of materialistic cupidity to the dazzled masses while propping up the paradigm of the patriarchal power structure. The question is unavoidable. When will the people finally revolt against the tyranny of Santa Claus?
We tell the poor to venerate him as some bibulous, avuncular altruist. Yet in reality this porcine Pol Pot, this crimson-clad Caligula, works just one day a year, while forcing a sweatshop of subjugated elves to toil under his whiskery yoke for the other 364. Inside each house on his snow-swaddled route he gorges on the sherry and mince pies proffered by the proletariat, leaving his reindeer to survive on paltry carrots.