I’ve never really gotten why that guy gets a pass. He breaks into all our homes one night a year and nobody bats an eyelash. Father Christmas, Père Noël, Saint Nicholas, Kris Kringle, Santa Claus — sounds like a series of aliases for someone trying to avoid a background check. “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.” When Santa Claus does it, it’s charming, but when I do it, I get served with a restraining order.
I would just like to point out that you were the one who wanted to meet me. So my Tinder profile said I lived in a gated community — I was just about to get out of prison, so it wasn’t wrong. And it was Christmas time. Isn’t that a holiday miracle? Your new boyfriend getting out of jail? I even showed up in a Santa suit. I just don’t know what the problem is.
Okay, maybe my dick in the wrapped present box wasn’t … let’s say, strictly tactical. Not terribly romantic, in hindsight. I realize that now.
Also, how much do you tip the guy serving the restraining order? I gave him a 20. Is that, like, kosher?
We all want to have love at the holidays. I’ve tried my best not to go looking for it. That’s what they say, right? That loves comes to you when you’re not looking for it? That’s why I blindfolded myself and dove directly into that basement pit of sexy archaeologists, sexy dental hygienists, and sexy librarians.
That’s a metaphor, by the way. I’m not like that guy from “Silence of the Lambs.” That’s weird.
Anyway, I’m sorry you didn’t like your Christmas surprise. Guess you’re more into men with stomachs like a bowl full of jelly. Can’t really help you there, girl. Maybe I’ll follow the old man’s playbook and try a few more houses all in one day. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?