People of Australia: Santa is dead.
His body was found half eaten by his own reindeer in his north pole workshop and so utterly destroyed that discovering exactly HOW he died will be nigh on impossible. Some say his own servants—midget slaves and malnourished beasts of burden—where the culprits. Others say it was AIDS. Personally, I don't give a shit.
But never fear, you wretched, hidebound plebs. You can continue to abstractly celebrate the birth of some long-dead-redundant-public-speaker through the medium of Present Giving For The Aim Of Present Receiving. Here he is, the New Face of Seasonal Holidays, the replacement (and possible dispatcher) of that Man Beast himself; Jolly Old Saint Nicholas — the mighty Mr Regalos.
He has no workshop with midgets, starving animals or a haggard, toothless old crone for a consort. He hates cold weather, can't get fat due to a metabolic condition and has a fear of heights. He will not appear, simultaneously, in shopping malls all around the world listening to snot-nosed punks ask for Shit-They-Don't-Need or a newer version of Shit-They-Already-Have. He has a strict Get-What-You're-Fucking-Given-Policy.
He buys his mainly hand-made presents at low prices in povo countries (using superior foreign currencies) and gives them out in richer countries (or sells them on at a price that is practically giving them away).
His origins are somewhat enigmatic-ish. Some say he was born many, many years ago in an outer suburban car park to a couple of 8th Generation Illuminated Plate-Hat Wearing Dutch Immigrants. And in place of a gooey, rancid placenta, he was squeezed out divinely wrapped in the most pure, crease-less and awe-inspiring heavenly fabrics. Peasants travelled from all around to witness this angelic child, enveloped in superb sacrosanct fibres.
During his Pubertyzing Years it is said Mr Regalos travelled the world preaching the benefits of Natural Filament-al Perfection to the masses, cradling lambs, slagging off fat people and doctrines stating that Consciousness and Will are wholly due to material agency — paying his way via competing in illegal underground Man Vs Animal Fighting.
A man of Otherwordly Vision, he plays by rules set by no man except the one man who sets his rules; him. He won't come down your chimney as he says "that's retarded and my cape will get dirty", but rather break into your house at whatever time he feels like. But be warned, he hates animals and especially children and if confronted and SEEN (equaling provocation to him) he will attack, by any means necessary, to any end. He is also, somehow, protected by law so perhaps best that you lock your extended family in a Panic Room or Undergound Bunker or, better yet, leave town on your suspected Delivery/Break In Night.
He has developed his own private army of 'aggressive gift givers' called the Regalos Rangers to help with deliveries when his gout flares up and has to slow down on his Break & Enters. These Regalos Rangers are also to be avoided at all costs. Sure, they look pretty with all those colours but they WILL karate chop your pet or child into a raggard sack of shattered Weet Bix if hindered.
However, plans are afoot to render his inherent lack of will and other gouty afflictions redundant with a new robotic 18 foot high powersuit—dubbed Regalatron—that shoots presents at high velocity up to 5 kilometres. Meaning in high density apartment living areas he can simply perch himself at distant vantage points and shoot Projectile Gifts through windows for ultimate efficiency.
And if you insist on leaving something for Mr Regalos to snack on, don't you dare put out milk and biscuits as you and your extended family will regret it, forever. He is partial to oven warmed empanadas (meat, ham and cheese or even, at a pinch, chicken) — DO NOT microwave them, whatever you fucking do. Lay this out with at least one long neck of your local working class beer and you should avoid controversy.
A wholesome Man Of Nature, he sees no need in senseless production-for-productions-sake. Looking at the North Pole Stocks, he saw that Planet Earth, even taking into account approximated human population expansion, has in the vicinity of 73 years of pre-printed Christmas cards in storage. That fat old bearded bastard sure had fucking tickets on himself. So what did this mysterious Man of Outstandingness do? He went ahead and overprinted every single one of the 73 years worth of cards with ecologically sound inks made from crushed insects and whale tears.
And word has it that unlike his deceased, obese predecessor, Mr Regalos ain't into whoring himself Corporate Style as he has "other fruitful investments" releasing him of need for those vile acts. He has also publicly commented that "he fucking hates Coca Cola" and would rather drink "carbonated bin juice out of a used douche bag", describing Santa Claus as The Poster Boy for Diabetes.
In the Spirit of Festiveness, Mr Regalos as also turned his musical talents to a new and catchy Festive Song:
Regalatron is Coming to Town
Oh! You better watch out
You better not cry
You better not bag gout
I'm fucking tell you why
Regalatron is coming to town
He's making his hit list
And spell checking it twice
Gonna find out how your organs will price
Regalatron is coming to town
He CCTV's you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're choking snake
He knows if you've been badass or good
So be good or bones will break
Oh! You better watch out
You better not cry
You better not be a boy scout
I'm fucking tell you why
Regalatron is coming to town
Mr Regalos — Bringing Fear And Fair Trade Back Into Seasonal Holidays.
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