My mailman looks like Santa Claus. The poor guy comes by everyday, sweaty and irritable, throwing my mom’s house magazines and my dad’s dirty ones into the dog-shaped mailbox at the bottom of my driveway. When I was a little kid, I used to imagine that this was Santa’s day job. Perhaps doing that whole Pole thing with the reindeer got a little old and he wanted… a diversion? I can’t remember my logic, but the long and short of it was that for some reason Santa was my mailman. Maybe I was the best kid of all, even though that wasn’t the case at all. This is what I used to tell my friends. Hey, I get to see Santa in the summer. (It wasn’t a particularly pretty sight, but who else has seen Santa in the summer?)

Once, about a year ago, I asked my mom about him. Turns out that his name’s Henry and he’s got a wife and lives down the street about two blocks over. This guy, Henry, leads a normal life. He just happens to look like Santa Claus. This guy, Henry, got married. This means (generally) that he had to… have sex. Side note- he’s Santa. Think about it.

This got be probing into the real life of Santa Claus. The guy’s probably got fetishes, tons of fetishes. Maybe he likes to see his wife in leopard print bikinis. Maybe he likes to be dominated. Maybe he likes giving it to her anal. This is Santa Claus.

The real Santa probably enjoys getting gang-banged by elves.

Seriously. Okay, this guy buys groceries. The man goes out for a loaf of bread or milk or butter. The guy probably consumes EZ Cheese everyday after work. Just squirts it into his mouth and belches afterwards, getting an appreciative laugh from his wife, who secretly hates it. So does he, but he thinks his wife enjoys it. What if he has children? Will they grow up and look like Santa Claus? Does the real Santa Claus (the one at the Pole, not the one on River Street) promote abstinence? Dude, this guy probably buys grapes and apples. Maybe he’s got some kind of a weird food fetish like … chocolate laxatives. Or… mangoes. This guy probably is the most fucked up creature ever.

Imagine it. Santa Claus (Henry) has jock itch. The guy mails a package once a day (or is he constipated?). The man’s nads sweat. He has wet dreams. He calls his wife by the wrong name. He calls his dog by his wife’s name. And vice-versa. He probably has all sorts of weird psychological problems, like Tourette’s. He probably screams obscenities when he thinks no one’s looking.

He’s one of those guys who, at four in the morning, goes through to all of the people to whom he delivers’ mailboxes and pisses in them. (This happened last summer.) He probably reads our magazines before he gives them to us. He probably reads our mail. He probably occasionally sneaks off with party invitations. He probably eats our candy. He probably steals money out of envelopes.

He probably listens to Howard Stern in the morning as he drives along in his Mail Mobile. He has strong desires to run down young children in the street. He has strong desires to buy a Mercedes and move to Florida. He wants to be attractive and young again. He wants to be able to get it up and keep it up again. He wants to be able to pinch waitresses’ rear ends without feeling like a cradle-snatcher.

He probably feels really happy about what he did to Rudolph.

He probably watches MTV just to get new ideas for fantasies.

He’s probably only had sex in the missionary position.

He’s Santa. He’s Henry. Sometimes reality fucks you up like that. I have to keep remembering that he’s just a regular guy.