Santa. How can be? How does he do it? How can one ordinary man deliver millions of presents in a single night?! It can’t be done, despite weak, tacked-on, magical explanations like flying reindeer, bottomless sacks, and the ability to whoosh up chimneys by laying a finger aside of one’s nose. Impossible. Unless… there is something deeper going on. Something that can’t be explained by the obvious, but that CAN be explained by a crazy, hair-brained theory we just came up with! So fire up your social media accounts, and start fakenewsing your friends, family, and coworkers IMMEDIATELY.

Firstly, why so many Santas? There’s folks dressed up like Santa everywhere. Getting stuck in chimneys, filling the local throne at the mall, hiding behind bushes at the park, getting arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct. Can a mere myth really inspire that level of disorganized, spontaneous imitation? Of course not. Being a Santa is no mere hobby, funtime, or seasonal income for our plus-sized bearded elders.

It’s a cult. A well-organized, fiercely-dedicated, intensely secret cult with rigid rules on appearance and behavior. Also, it’s like that movie Fight Club, only without quite as much beating each other bloody with fists. Members must take a solemn vow of Santitudity. They don’t only dress as Santa (called “taking the red”), grow a beard, and delight/terrify children. They not only swear to carry the torch of Christmas-itude, and to never deny the true existence of Santa. No, they actually must BECOME Santa. They undergo a drug-fueled initiation rite designed to help them believe that they, in fact, ARE Santa. Women are not explicitly excluded, but typically have trouble with the a beard-growing requirement. Beware, though. Once in, never try to get out. Apostates are secretly murdered and made to look like accidents. Don’t spill the beans, either. Those who attempt to reveal the cult’s existence are blacklisted and never get a good Christmas present again, forced into a sad existence of ugly sweaters, boring ties, fake-smelling bath sets, corporate coffee mugs, and a never ending array of socks and underwear, socks and underwear, SOCKS AND UNDERWEAR. And also sometimes murdered, just for variety.

Now, how can Santa Claus appear in different places at the same time? How can he be leading a small town parade whilst simultaneously ringing a bell in front of the Wal-Mart AND absorbing urine from terrified toddlers at the local mall? Most parents cross this horrible, faith-shaking, narrow bridge of faith by explaining the doppelgangers away as “helpers” or, that sure, THAT guy is just some dude in a cheap Santa suit, but there’s still a REAL Santa at the North Pole doing the REAL work of Christmas, while these chumps put on a dog and pony show for hicks like you.

But what if that’s not the case? What if … THEY ARE ALL SANTA? If Santa has powers beyond those of any mortal, why should we expect him to BE a mortal?! Why should we expect him to be like a human at all?! All the Santas are one. ALL THE SANTAS ARE ONE. Santa is a gestalt creature. He ONE entity with many many near identical bodies. Only a labor force in the thousands could pull off what Santa does in one night. So, what IS Santa?! Creepy, for one.

This leads us to our next theory. If Santa Claus cannot possibly be human, what can he then be? An alien? Now you’re just being ridiculous. The cabal of international bankers and Bilderberg Gnomes controlled by the Committee on Foreign Relations would unleash their army of blue helmets and black helicopters so fast, even your fluoridated-water dulled senses would register surprise as the North Pole was carpet-bombed back to the Triassic.

No, there’s a better explanation. What we humans call “Santa Claus” is merely the intrusion into our three dimensions of an extradimensional creature that exists outside of time and space as we know it. Just as a sphere crossing a two dimensional plane appears as a growing and shrinking circle, the intersection of this creature with our plane just happens to look like a large human in a red suit with a white beard. Since this… this… this… THING is not subject to our laws of physics, existing outside of our universe, it is a simple matter for it to reach into closed rooms, locked houses, and deliver presents to millions simultaneously. The more terrifying aspect is why it would chose to do so. We cannot impute human motives on such an unearthly creature that isn’t even made of matter as we know it, but an agglomeration of Planck-length one-dimensional vibrating strings in an eleven dimensional superuniverse. Even more terrifying is that we have misinterpreted the situation by assuming this entity even HAS motives. It does not want to make us happy, spy on us, or lull us into a false sense of security and then eat our souls. No, the annual appearance of “Santa” is merely the rhythmic equivalent of its heart beating, lungs breathing, or blood flowing. Or pooping. We merely choose to interpret this inexplicable phenomenon as a kindly old dude chucking presents from a magic flying 18th century equivalent of an SUV. We must instead capture, analyze, and dissect these “fingers” of the greater creature that we might learn how it operates. Then we can learn how to heal the dimensional rifts and weakened time/space continuum that has allowed these apparitions to penetrate our world and torment us annually. The true celebration can only come when our scientists forever eliminate Santa from reality.

But where science fails us, religion picks up the ball and runs with it, spikes it in the end zone, does a ref-defying taunty dance, and demands everyone agree it’s particular taunty dance is the one true taunty dance and there can be no others. Some stripes in the Christian rainbow don’t like Santa; seeing him as some kind of interloper in what should be Jesus’s exclusive turf. I mean, whose birthday is it? What’s the reason for the season? It must be aggravating. Also, Santa is an anagram of… SATAN! And as we all know, fun letter swapping games for bored vaguely literate people are always a font of uncorrupted religious truth forever. This final theory on the true nature of Santa Claus is for them:
Santa Claus isn’t against Jesus Christ. Santa Claus IS Jesus Christ. After crucifixion, returning from the dead, visiting friends and family, going on tour in the Americas, founding a bloodline in France, and generally having the most active posthumous career known to mankind, Jesus retired. He gained weight, turned gray, got bored, and chafed at the shackles of his own fame. He realized anything he then did as himself would be soon be overrun with his fans and supporters regardless of its merit. So, Jesus adopted a pseudonym, a spiffy new outfit, and reinvented himself. Yet, he remained true to two of his main interests. Jesus was a carpenter. Jesus loves the little children. So he uses his carpentry powers to make them toys.  He uses his Son of God powers to monitor and track every child in the world’s good/evil levels, pick the most appropriate toy for each, make the toys, and get them all delivered all around the world on a single night. Jesus Santa is so selflessly awesome, that on HIS birthday, he gives YOU a present! You don’t even have to go pick it up! He delivers!

It’s the only explanation that explains everything, AND puts the Christ back in Christmas.

You’re welcome.

The Moon Landings Were Faked!

Confirming what for years had been only a persistent rumor, undercover VGG.com reporters have determined that the July 1969 Apollo-program moon landings were indeed an elaborate government deception. Forty years of lies ends today!

We have the EVIDENCE!

WTF! My home state is using my hard earned tax money to recall license plates with the potenially offensive letters W-T-F on them. Seriously, here’s a news story. (the story also has a link to a wonderfully produced slide show that teaches parents that the letter p stands for parents.)

Why stop there? Why not just go ahead and ban the letter F? I mean it stands for FUCK doesn’t it? I don’t want my child seeing the letter F any more.  Cause if they see the letter F they may learn how to spell FUCK. We should ban C too. There’s several reasons for that letter to go away. How about B? A is out. D? Definitely D. Shit! We’ve got to get rid of S.  

My current car tag’s letters are XTK. What does that represent?  Xylophone Tit Kum or X-Box Twat Kock. Oh, my god my car’s a menace.

Letters are dangerous people. You better watch out for them.

Thank God George Carlin didn’t live to see this.

…who just passed away a few days ago, the Van Gogh-Goghs would like to present this essay from Inauguration Day 2001, because, um, it’s the only Robet Altman-related thing I think we have. Enjoy, and give our best to Abe Lincoln, Bob.

Why Did I Agree To Help Robert Altman Move?

by T. Mike

Oh, my aching back! Cripes! I can barely move! And my feet! Dear God are my dogs barking! This past weekend was one of the most miserable weekends of my life. For that was the weekend I helped famed movie director Robert Altman move. Robert Altman was as good as his word – he said he would move to France if George W. Bush became president. He’s a man of his word, you have to give him that- not like those flip-flopping Hollywood phonies Alec Baldwin and Kim Bassinger. They backpedaled immediately on leaving the country in the event of a Bush presidency. Wusses.

No, Robert Altman said he was Franceward bound, and that’s where he probably is right now, sipping Champagne on the Seine as bereted lackeys unpack his boxes. You know, in France they think he’s a genius. I mean, he IS a genius, and Americans also think he’s a genius, I just meant it was nice that he went to a country that also appreciates the work of a man who gave us 1993’s emotionally resonant Short Cuts.

We started with his matching set of sofa beds and it just got worse from there. He didn’t like closets, so most rooms had oak wardrobes. And I never saw so many credenzas in my life. Everywhere you turned, boom, there was a credenza.

Watching him pack things into boxes was just sad. He would just throw a bunch of random crap into a box and tape it up. He hadn’t gone through anything. I swear one box was full of old Beverly Hills phone books. I almost stopped talking about the brilliant casting of 1980’s Popeye to comment on it, but I decided I had better let it slide. I had already had an awkward moment when I asked, “When are the others getting here?” and he said, “What others?”

But I think the saddest moment came Saturday when we took a well deserved break to watch the inauguration on his heavy looking wide screen (Why couldn’t he have bought one was of those nice new light flat screens?!). He seemed to watch intently, especially when the camera cut to the crowd. His trained director’s eyes were scanning, scanning, scanning. But for what? Right after Bush took the oath, Altman seemed to sag visibly. I watched the great man for a second.

“Turn it off,” he said.
“What’s the matter?” I asked jokingly, “You were hoping he’d get assassinated right during the oath of office?”
Altman turned with a start and stared at me. I think I heard him mumble “maybe” under his breath, but then he jerked his head toward the Italian-marble-topped coffee table.
“Let’s get that on the truck,” he said. I let out a little sigh and grabbed one end.
“Hey! Lift with your legs, not your back, buddy” he said. If I had a nickel for every time he said that to me, I could have used the money to hire some professional movers. And I had a sneaking suspicion he kept calling me ‘buddy’ because he had forgotten my name.
“We’ll get the refrigerators next, buddy,” he said as I walked backward down the stairs with the coffee table.
“Quit pushing! Not so fast!” I said. Somehow I always ended up being the one to walk backwards, listening to his innumerable admonitions to watch the door frame. Why a big celebrity director was so adamant about wanting his security deposit back was beyond me. And why the hell did he need THREE refrigerators?

And why oh why did I have to bump into him in that Safeway? Why did I have to offer a few trenchant insights into the elegiac americana of his epic 1975 work, Nashville, that got us talking? Why did I tell him 1999’s Cookie’s Fortune was undeservedly underrated? Why, oh why oh why did I agree to help him move? What the hell was I thinking? I guess I was just overwhelmed by his star power – I mean, the guy directed M*A*S*H (1970), the AFI number 7 American film comedy of all time! But who knew he would own so many heavy, heavy things? I thought it would be all movie posters and maybe a couple of Oscars or something. Throw ’em in a box, throw ’em in the truck, and boom! It’s beer time! How wrong I was. How very, very wrong.

And finally, my back aching, my muscles sore, my shirt soaked with sweat, and after trying to make small talk by praising his early films Countdown (1968) and That Cold Day in the Park (1969), what do you think he did? Did he say “Great job, pizza’s on me?” Pfft! No.

Avoiding my gaze, he muttered “thanks,” and said, “Look me up if you ever get to Paris, buddy,” as he hustled me out, DELIBERATELY not giving me his new address. I didn’t push it cause I was ready to get the hell out of there. But… no beer, no pizza – I mean, those things are just common courtesy – it’s understood that at the end of a move there will be beer and pizza.

I pity the poor frogs he hornswoggles into helping him move into his new place in France. God as my witness, I will never help Robert Altman move again. I don’t care if Hitler gets elected president.

Hello I’m Charon. You might know me as Pluto’s “moon.” I’ve remained silent in the planet/not-a-planet controversy regarding Pluto, but I can remain silent no longer. The International Astronomical Union has decided to demote my life partner Pluto and take away his status as a planet. This blatant, divisive, and cruel discrimination can not stand.

Pluto and I are no strangers to controversy. Our very discovery was controversial. Percival Lowell’s outer-solar system witch hunt first outed us in 1930 due to the public’s panic about a supposed gravitational “influence” over Neptune. Well, now the truth is out there- our supposed “influence” on Neptune is minimal, people: minimal. Neptune is his own planet, and he lives his own life. As for us, we could live with the strange looks and being snubbed by space probes. But this time the astronomy establishment has crafted an arbitrary definition of “planet” simply to exclude Pluto. This is discrimination at its worst.

Am I not a planet? Do I not orbit the Sun? Am I not rounded by the gravity of my own mass? What more could you want? Yes, our orbit has been described as “eccentric”– but I’m here to tell you that this is an astronomy codeword for “inferior.” You can dress it up in all the euphemisms you want, astronomy, but it is still the language of hate. It’s time we stood up and proudly proclaimed that our orbit isn’t eccentric- it’s QUEER!

Obviously, panicked, conservative astronomers no longer want Pluto and I in the list of planets where children would have to be taught about us and our lifestyle. By demoting us, they think they can sweep us under the rug, out of sight, and pretend that moons orbiting planets and planets orbiting suns in neat little ellipses in the same plane is the somehow the “natural” order of things, despite the reality of the universe.

What they find even worse is that I don’t orbit Pluto. And Pluto doesn’t orbit me. We orbit EACH OTHER. We are not a planet and moon, but a double planet! Our relationship is an EQUAL partnership, and it is this fact that so frightens the establishment. Our existence challenges the so-called “traditional values” of the planet-moon relationship where the moon is always in the inferior position, and “knows their place.”

It’s sad that the astronomy establishment sees our equality as a threat that must be suppressed. A threat so great they feel they must revoke our status as planet. The IAU will no longer legally recognize our partnership, and will deny such recognition to all future double planets, or even, “God forbid” triple planets. But we’re here, we’re queer, we’re Kuiper! And we’re not going anywhere- in fact, our numbers are growing. Sedna, Quaoar, Varuna, – sure our names may not be from classic Roman mythology, we may not have the topography and atmospheres the “establishment” says is proper, but we all orbit the same sun as you.

The IAU has chosen to discriminate against Pluto by assigning it a status separate from the “classical” planets, and calling it something other than “planet.” Separate is not equal. Especially when the separate status thrust upon us is “dwarf.” Dwarf? We’re not dwarfs- YOU, you the astronomers, are the dwarfs- dwarfed in spirit, dwarfed in mind, dwarfed in imagination. Your hide-bound, outdated, antiquated prejudices have left you unable to see that all planetary bodies are created equal. Your plutophobia sickens and disgusts me.

There’s no need for it to be like this. Dark matter is 90% of the universe; regular matter, the type of matter that makes up planetary stalwarts like Jupiter, Earth, and Mars–is the very same stuff that makes up Pluto, myself, and a whole host of bodies you’ve probably never even taken the time to be aware of. We’re all part of the same, precious 10%. And it’s high time we all saw that.

We all orbit one, solitary star. Let’s try to remember that.