2002-12-18 11:55 a.m.
Saturday night we attended what must have been the most fun event ever
: SantaCon. SantaCon is a somewhat organized Santa Rampage
which takes place concurrently in many cities around the world. We attended in the horrible, windy, cold, and stupidly raining local city of San Francisco.
From what I knew, the usual plan was pretty simple: about 100 people dress up in Santa costumes and then go from bar to bar and get rip–roaring drunk. Then, after everyone is well on their way to full–on Santa insobriety, everyone besieges local shops, hassles tourists, and sticks their tongues down each other's throats.
This Santa Rampage was no different.
We started out at Zeitgeist in the Mission. Here we see some of the day's first arrivals, "80's Santa" and "Punk Rock Santa".
More Santas descend upon Zeitgeist. "Strange Girl With Lots of Fabric Santa" and her friend, "I am Covered In Plastic So You Can Urinate On Me But I Will Not Have To Clean My Santa Suit Santa".
My favorite Santa of all, "Sleazy Santa". Here we see him not looking as sleazy as usual, somehow.
This is the "Sleazy Santa" that I know and love.
Cloth gloves help to prevent Santa from leaving incriminating fingerprints on children and their tender gonads.
Inside Zeitgeist, Santas began the most important part of the Christmas season—getting VERY drunk.
"Now, talk into this fleshy, pink microphone so the whole world can hear what you have to say!" HMPGGLURGBUBRUGGR. In a most romantic gesture, "Sleazy Santa" proceeded to slap his puffy penis on my drunk, stupid face. NOTE: It is highly likely that I won't be able to run for public office anymore.
By the end of the evening, every single person in this room had sucked face with every other person in this room. THE GLORY OF IT ALL!
"Punk Rock Santa" sure is punk rock today! He is flying the punk rock flag for all to see!
Dave Marr, aka "Sleazy Santa" is usually seen in this position: mouth wide open, willing to accept any filthy thing you want to shove in it. Boris, aka "Pee Cannon Santa" waves his hand as if to say, "Hello ladies and gentlemen. I will pump your face full of piss!"
My name tag says, "HO".
Not quite drunk yet, but definitely getting there.
What a tender moment. This reminds me of the story of where babies come from: "You see, little Billy, when two Santas love one another, or when they are both very, very drunk, something special happens between them. This is called stumbling. Then, after the appropriate amount of stumbling, they make out with everyone they can find. Then, they steal a baby from a rich tourist couple. And that is where babies come from, Billy!"
Through the magic of using chemicals—alcohol—to alter my brain chemistry, I think that a good portion of my evening looked like this: blurry, blinky, red, and white.
You can tell that this woman with me is a genuine Santa and not an imposter because she is holding a drink. This was taken at a place called Cha Cha Cha. I think.
The drunk Santas paraded to the next stop, a Mexican transvestite bar in the Mission.
Listen up children: Christmas is not about Santas, or presents, or even holiday cheer. Christmas is about getting drunk and making out up against someone's car. Excellent examples of Yuletide cheer, Amy gloms on to Boris and jams her tongue in his mouth.
There was some more walking and then we ended up in the BART station. The plan was to get on a train and head to Union Square. There we could accost tourists and wealthy shoppers.
Thank god you can not see their filthy hands and what they are doing to with them.
The gravity of the Santas became a bit too much, and many of them collapsed back upon one another much like a star collapses—only with groping and alcohol breath.
I must have been pretty drunk, because I don't really remember much of this train ride.
I didn't take any more pictures after this. I think I was too distracted with the monkey–knife–fight style shenanigans which were exploding around me. I know we went to Union Square and took over a Victoria's Secret. The manager threw us out pretty quickly. Then we invaded the Disney Store. This time the SF Police threw us out.
In hindsight, I really missed an excellent opportunity in the Disney Store. It would have been so stellar to gather the wide–eyed children around me and teach them about the most important words of the holidays: fuck
, ass rape
, and scotch
. Oh, well. There is always next year.
As we tromped towards our next bar destination, I grabbed at all the well–dressed tourists and invited them to come with us. It would have been great to see Santas making out with 45–year–old rich ladies! I wonder what would happen if they actually mated
The evening ended with more of a fizzle than a bang. The Santa army filled up the Lusty Lady, a quarter–booth strip joint, there was some more groping, making out, and debauchery, and then we all went our separate ways.
I felt quite sad that the evening had to end. It was possibly the most fun I have had in my entire life. I got to be around my friends, laugh, cause trouble, make out, run around and be crazy, and be part of a greater good
. I felt like a child leaving Disney World—I never wanted to leave, I never wanted it to end.
But, perhaps it is the finiteness of a moment that frames it so beautifully. Without this frame of beginning
, would I even have the vision to appreciate the glorious succession of moments for what they really were? Probably not
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