Admit it. He’s worse than all those mothers with eyes in the back of their heads. “He knows when you’ve been bad or good”? He’s not Santa Claus, he’s frickin’ Big Brother. He’s the earthly, saintly, elf-y equivalent to that guy in the sky always looking down on us. Want to pick your nose? Don’t do it – God’s watching. Want to slide your hand inside your underwear? I advise against it: all those relatives who made it to Heaven are peering down, all smh, but, you know, holy forgiving and all that, too. How embarrassing. Don’t give them the satisfaction. If you want to have any fun in this life, you’re going to have to renounce that crap or spend three hours a week in the confessional so you can scrub clean your sins – but, you know, protein stains are hard to get out. And while they’re all up at the North Pole or singing in the heavenly glee club, the other guy is snickering in the corner. You know the guy, the other Nick. Old Nick. You think anagrams are games? Santa/Satan – two sides of a wooden nickel, and we play the slots with it. We all know naughty people get gifts: they aren’t indicted; no one recognizes their psychopathic reality; they get away with murder. All that – and stock options, too. Ask ‘em and they’ll tell you (what you already know, hand-in-your-underpants): naughty is nice.