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In This Issue

• Todurken: Hot Poultry Threesome
• New York City Hates The Homeless (Surprise!)
• Pope Lives It Up In Final Days
• Letters to the Feditrix: We Want Orangutans!
• Columbia's Investments Are Really Shady (Another Surprise!)
• Italian Neo-Fascism: Sexier than Ever
• Hidden Origins of your Favorite Holidays
• Macy's Parade Unites Jaded New Yorkers in Disgust
• Slow Motion Gunfight Saves Christmas
• Barnard Feminists Full of It (You Guessed It!)
• Reality TV to follow Nike's Lead, Exploit Third World Women
• Fed Staffer Admits Inappropriate Santa Fantasies
• Family Time Blows (Got you Again!)
• The Obligatory Vegan Option: Tofurky
• Why Holiday Diversity Scares Me
• A Paris Hilton Holiday Comic
• Your Retirement Fund
• Silent Vengeance: Book II
• Wacky Fun Whitey
• Robot Ninjas vs. Zombie Vikings

Kate Sullivan

As a sex-starved non-Mohammedan freshman, I found myself desperately out of the loop on two levels last December. A social (and sexual) outcast, I was suffering from some severe Christmas envy. I regularly had elaborate fantasies about the kind of life my roommate, a good Christian with a boyfriend, was having without me: a nice stroll through Club Monaco with her clean-shaven boyfriend? Possibly a few stolen kisses in front of a cute, fuzzy, anatomically incorrect snowman? And, to top it off, a long slow fuck in front of their fireplace, the two of them probably getting off on the fact that at any moment, a morbidly obese elderly man might catch them in the act? Just what kind of a religion was I being denied, just because I looked more like a potential victim of female genital mutilation than a cast member on the WB?

And so began my perverted sexual daydreams about the center of Christianity: Santa himself. But don't start laughing and pointing just yet. You have to wonder about it on some level, even if you are a Gentile. All kinds of questions pop up. Just what kind of a dick was Santa blessed with? Are cum stains easily washed out of red velvet slacks, or do you have to dry-clean? And if you had a cotton candy-esque beard, wouldn't you style your pubes to resemble your facial hair--just for shits 'n giggles--and some really intriguing post-coital conversation?

So, last Christmas, finding myself outside a going out of business Macy's, I decided to stop putting it off. I was going to do it: I would shove myself to the front of a line populated by toddlers screaming for the next holiday fad, face down St. Nick with a "come-hither" look, and yank down those silky smooth drawers. Oh yeah, and rip off a lock of downy white pubes, with more panache than an overeager Korean bikini waxer.

No, I had no idea what was in store for me. But I did have my own preconceived fantasies of this oh-so-perfect penis to come. I always figured he'd be circumcised. Call me naive, but I knew Santa wouldn't be into the dirt-encrusted foreskin look. And I had a feeling it would be of perfect length, Santa being conveniently Caucasian, as the advertising conglomerates at Nabisco and Coca-Cola had led me to believe. This bringer of gifts would definitely be a classy guy.

Venturing into the children's section, armed with my newly purchased Victoria's Secret brassiere (okay...I lied, my tragically unhip J.C. Penney underwear, whose crotch I had cut out myself only hours earlier), I fervently convinced myself that he'd go for me. How could he not? With these bedroom eyes, red-rimmed from a week free of sleep, and this purely John Jay-fed ass? I was ready to go.

Sliding onto his lap, I started to relive my fantasy. Preparing to rip off those tight pants, I gyrated my hips up against his oh-so potent erection...or where his oh-so potent erection would be. Well...not everyone's insurance plan covers Viagra: I'd give him a minute. Or two. Impatient at last, I finally looked into his face. The eyes of a greasy looking, pimply youth on his first job, just barely making enough to pay for his Santa suit, greeted me, the remnants of a thin, equally-greasy-looking moustache mingling with the tufts of white beard. And not even a sizeable bulge. As a few bewildered looking elves helped me off Santa's lap, making some weak excuses about an age restriction, my fantasies of that perfectly-shaped cock seeped out of my mind. No, Santa-Lovin' was not to be. But Kwanzaa was still going on...and there had to be a few well-endowed Pan-African gurus hanging around Columbia willing to show me a real holiday experience.