The worst thing that ever happened to me happened on Christmas. Oh, God. It was Christmas Eve. I was 9 years old. I was at Ronald McDonald’s house. He had kids in his house, as clowns do. We were decorating the tree with Ronald, as kids do with clowns, waiting for Grimace to arrive. A couple hours went by. No Grimace. It wasn’t like him to miss a free meal. Me and the kids started panicking. Ronald was apathetic, as clowns are. Christmas Day came and went, and still, no Grimace. None of us could sleep, except for Ronald, who slept like a baby clown. The house was freezing, so I decided to light a fire. And that’s when we noticed the smell.

We called the McPolice. Officer Big Mac came over, drunk as always, and he searched the chimney. I expected him to pull out a Fry Guy. Or maybe a McNugget Buddy. But instead he pulled out Grimace. He was dressed in a Santa suit. He’d been climbing down the chimney like a dumbass, his arms loaded with 50 cent McDonald’s gift certificates. Fucking inflation. He was going to surprise us. He slipped and broke his neck. Died instantly. Maybe if he hadn’t gone through that questionable surgery to have his extra arms removed, he would’ve been able to stop the fall.

And that’s how I found out there was no Santa Claus.

I’d say ‘have a great day,’ but you probably won’t now. Merry Christmas?