Every night while they’re sleeping, he flies back to the North Pole to tell Santa what he saw that day.

And he doesn’t like to be touched.

NOTHING AT ALL CREEPY ABOUT THIS FELLA – JUST LOOK AT THAT INNOCENT, NON-MURDERING FACE OF HIS!!!

Granted, I suppose when we base a holiday around a fat guy sneaking into your house in the middle of the night, eating your cookies and then leaving behind presents, some might argue that we’ve already left the chimney flue open for all sorts of other disturbing characters to wander into our homes and do things that would warrant a call to the police if not committed by someone wearing a red suit with bells jingling all about.

But no self-respecting adult can look at this elf – that looks like he was a reject from Mister Rogers’ Land of Make-Believe – and not admit that he’s a creepy, little sonofabitch to put it so kindly. Between your kids and your Instagram followers, maybe you’ve gotten convinced that his wacky hijinks like nude bathing in the sugar bowl and bobbing for marshmallows out of the toilet are harmless good fun as we ramp up in preparation for a visit from the biggest – no pun intended – reverse-thief of them all, but deep down when you’re arranging that creepy fucker ever so delicately among your sharpest steak knives or figuring out how to get him into the water cooler “so that he can go swimming,” you know exactly how creepy this Elf on a Shelf really is…

I don’t know – maybe it’s just me being naive, but I don’t let murderers into my house and anyone who’s got rosy red cheeks permanently painted onto their face is most definitely a murderer.

Come on, people – that’s like Identifying Murderers 101.

You may think that you’re being cute with all of your Pinterest-inspired scenarios that little Kringle gets himself into, and your kids look so excited when they spring out of bed each morning, anxious to hunt around the house in search of what kind of mischief the little creepazoid has gotten himself into next. But let’s be honest with ourselves here – your kids would be excited if a stranger pulled up near the playground in an unmarked van filled with candy, but that doesn’t mean you bookmark the Hertz website to keep an eye on when the most affordable days to rent a van are.

Because I worry about the kids, honestly I do. When these jolly bastards go on their inevitable killing spree and murder the same parents who thought that they’d be a cute little Christmas game for Peyton and Cameron, I’ll be ok with that because they should’ve recognized the look of a killer in that elf’s eyes and left him on the shelf to ultimately gather dust in Hallmark’s warehouses where he belongs. Plus, that’ll mean shorter lines for me when I go out to do my holiday shopping!

But children don’t deserve to lose their lives at such a young age to a foot-tall puppet demon from the North Pole with a creepily innocent smile and a bloodlust for holiday mayhem that won’t be quenched until the carpets are stained with the colors of a thousand candy canes. Kids should be able to look forward to this magical time of year without worry that Lady Elaine Fairchilde’s outcast nephew is lurking in the toy box, watching their every move like some kind of posable, fun-loving pervert, just waiting for the perfect time to strike.

If you want your kids to behave out of fear of not getting any Christmas presents, install security cameras in their rooms like any reasonable parent and tell them that Santa will be watching them over the Internet while he works.

But don’t openly welcome this creepy murderer into your house – Santa will be here soon enough.

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Others are still incapacitated from yesterday’s self-imposed turkey and gravy coma.

Let them enjoy their savings and their sweet dreams of mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie, though, because we’ve got our own objective this weekend while the house is quiet and the air is calm before the impending holiday storm creeps in … because Christmas decorations don’t put themselves up, my fine multi-color illuminated friends, and nobody wants to be that guy who’s still frantically trying to decorate his home on Christmas Eve in hopes that Santa won’t skip them over for more impressively decorated abodes…

I know because I’ve been that guy and it’s never a pretty sight to find yourself scrambling through the desolate remains in the holiday lighting section of your local superstore, with your only choices at that point being a ratty, already opened box of icicle lights and a full shelf of those ridiculous inflatable outhouses because even rednecks need their Christmas decorations, too!

We have a rule in our house – and by we, I mean that my wife has a rule in our house – that holiday decorations aren’t to go up, or nary even be spoken of, until after Thanksgiving, which means that already we’re behind schedule compared to all of the stores that’ve been casually sneaking red and green housewares and pre-decorated Christmas trees onto their shelves since roughly August. Back when I lived in the frozen wasteland of Northern Michigan, I would actually start putting lights up in September, though admittedly most of that ambition was merely to avoid trudging around in subzero temperatures and going up on the roof once it had been transformed into a veritable slip and slide of snow and ice…

Thankfully now that I live in sunny Florida, I can wear shorts and flip-flops the day after Thanksgiving and I’m still to beach standards considered overdressed for the occasion!

So now is the time for us to channel our inner-Griswold as we dig those overflowing boxes of holiday delight out of crawlspaces and garages throughout suburbia, donning our sunglasses and cranking up the Christmas music to a moderately reasonable volume as we strive to illuminate our homes to the point where passing planes might mistakenly think that we’re part of the airport and thus ensure that the boys down at the electric company will most certainly still receive their Christmas bonuses this year.

I may not be a fan of heights, but I’ll take the risk of falling off the roof vs falling prices any day.

And though I love me some pumpkin pie, give me twinkling lights over pumpkin spice even with an extra dollop of whipped cream.

‘Tis the season for dancing lights a’plenty up and down every lane, street, and boulevard – so many that the neighbors have to buy special blinds if they want to get any sleep at all during the month of December while your house shines like a beacon for all that is jolly and bright, for a man’s decorating job isn’t truly done until his house puts out more light than our sun high in the noonday sky.

…but far more colorful and festive, of course!

So gather your extension cords and your tallest of ladders, my band of manic merrymakers, for we’ve got eaves to illuminate and halls to deck, golden stars to hang and mistletoe to also hang … wink wink … because our time is now and this season just wouldn’t be the most magical time of the year without our incredible efforts filling the streets where we live and play with tens of thousands of dazzling lights and smiling snowmen and towering inflatables as far as the eye can see.

Ain’t no way that we’re missing out on any visits from Santa due to low visibility – that’s for sure!

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At least if you’re one of the birds stuck in that dreadful song, you’ve got some backup in case one of your feathered friends unexpectedly comes down with the bird flu. Plus, the guy receiving all of that stuff is no doubt so busy cleaning up bird poop from that aviary of a Christmas gift that he’s probably not likely to notice if he’s a few birds or lords or whatever short by the end of it all anyways…

But alas, the world that I live in is not The Twelve Days of Christmas and I don’t have a fellow french hen or two whom I can call on to flutter around putting up lights and wrapping presents while I’ve been laid up in bed the last couple of days, sniffling like I’ve got nothing better to do but chug chicken noodle soup and watch National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation on repeat until Clark’s extended family finally shows him a little respect and gets out there to help him with his holiday lighting dilemma instead of just lounging around inside all day like a bunch of schlubs!

Time is precious, especially during the month of December when every hour that passes is one more closer to Santa’s big arrival and one less to enjoy the most magical, commercially fantastical time of the year. And yet for every kleenex that I fill and every swig of strange, green nasal medicine that I throw back, I can’t help but count my time lost in sales on presents overlooked or plates of freshly made peanut butter fudge left untouched by these peanut butter-lovin’ hands.

Now it’s not uncommon for me to find myself sick come January, and who really cares then because January sucks! What do I have to miss out on then – Florida’s week and a half of sub-optimal weather and two weeks of dieting that I’ll have given up by the third anyways?!

November, January, even June – these are good months for getting sick in my book. 

There’s not much going on, plenty of time to catch up on my reading, and hey, if it’s June we’re talking about, here in Florida it’ll be upwards of 180 degrees outside during the afternoon and I really have no intention of going outside anyways!

Christmastime just doesn’t work for me, though, which is something that I gladly would’ve explained to the microscopic germs capable of ruining one’s prime shopping and baking days if they had simply taken a few moments to consult my preferred timeframes for coughing up a lung like any decent viral and/or bacterial infection would do for its host. I mean, I get that they’ve got quotas to fill and everything, too, but so do I and the fourteen bags of gifts hidden strategically throughout my house aren’t going to wrap themselves in these precious moments leading up to Christmas Eve when I dream of being able to actually relax with a mug of hot chocolate in one hand and absolutely nothing to keep me up scrambling until four in the morning like I totally had to do last year.

I just want a nice, normal, marginally sane Christmas where I get to enjoy every last drop of the holiday spirit that drives me to get out of bed the other eleven months out of the year, and then I promise that as soon as we roll over into the new year, I’ll go right back to being sick as a dog for as long as you need me to be…

Seriously, one of my New Year’s resolutions is to lose, like, 40 pounds, so feel free to take as much of my January time as you need – just so long as you spare my turtle doves and other miscellaneous, holiday fowl for now.

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