CONTEST: I Want Proof

             Despite my family’s inconsistent dedication to religious observation, we manage to muster the energy for a single day of faith each and every year. That day, of course, is Christmas. That being said, to a nine year-old me, it was simply the best fucking morning ever. I never really concerned myself with the details, importance, or logistics of the whole affair. All I knew was that when I walked into the living room there was going to be a kaleidoscopic mass of gifts scattered about for me to rummage through. Once I turned ten, however, reality caught up to me. Sure, sure, I thought, the plausibility of a gluttonous old man with infinite funding and accessibility sailing around the cosmos spiking gifts through the chimneys of every well-mannered child was maybe not completely absurd. But how did he know what I wanted without a letter? Postage to the North Pole was unbelievably cheap upfront, so I assumed they made up for it with hidden fees and I didn’t wanna risk it. Yet, miraculously, Santa Claus remained on cue with a high percentage of gifts. That was the real dealbreaker for me.

The little conniving twerp that I had become started to get suspicious. In the days leading up to the 25^th, I had forced myself in a deep reclusive state, working on a plan to defraud the rosy, robed racketeer. My operation was dual-fronted. First, adjacent to the underwhelmingly gratuitous plate of cookies and milk, I had devised an autographical identification tool—in the form of a piece of paper that read:

“Santa, sign here: __________.”

I planned to cross-reference that data with known variations of my mother’s and father’s signatures, to make sure there were minimal similarities. The second part of my plan was simple and definitive. I had concealed a video camera in the living room, amidst the bookshelf, and before I went to sleep on Christmas Eve I snuck downstairs and hit the record button.

I awoke on Christmas Day with eagerness not for material possessions, but for the truth. First I ran over to the plate of cookies, where I had left the piece of paper. In the blank that I had provided for his signature, there was the word, in perfectly printed lowercase, “no”. I’d been outwitted; part one of my plan had failed. It was all up to the video evidence now. With adrenaline surging, I clasped the camera and flipped open the LCD screen. The display flashed, clearly embarrassed, as I read the message: “No Media”. Alright, dude, I thought. You win for now. 

- MR