Ms. Clause buys Santa's Underwear

 When I was 6 years old, my cousin told me Santa didn't exist. Like most children, I threw a fit, told her she was wrong, and then ran to my father to seek comfort in his arms.

Dad's response: "Well, kiddo, no, Santa isn't real. It's kind of like the Easter bunny, or the tooth fairy."

Me: "THERE'S NO EASTER BUNNY?!? WAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!"

Luckily for me, these mythical creatures continued to bring presents, eggs, and money well into my teen years to keep up the charade for my brother and sister.

I also learned I could use this knowledge of non-existence as blackmail.

And now, millions of parents are going to have to do some homework is they don't want their beloved monsters yelling, "you killed Santa!" 

For years, random letters to Santa have been re-directed by the USPS to the "North Pole" in Alaska where volunteers gather to write the children back, return address stamped and marked as the North Pole and everything.

Why? Because a registered sex offender was caught working as a volunteer.

Thanks, you sick bastard.

Now, it's not like parents can't write the letters back to children themselves, and letters written directly to "Operation Santa" will still be delivered, but what happens to sneaky little Timmy who puts a letter in the mail without mommy knowing?

I'll tell you what. He figures it out, folks. The sham is over.

Mommy can only hope the Polar express picks him up to show him that bells do jingle and Santa is real.

The easy solution would be to do a background check before allowing volunteers to participate in the program, but apparently "Santa's Elves" have small brains and didn't think of that...

So Christmas is ruined and you should just count your lucky stars that the pilgrims killed the natives through disease and famine and we can all celebrate the wonderful Euro-American tradition of Thanksgiving.

Personally, I'm okay with it. Weed out the weak. Can't survive smallpox? Suckers. You should have done what I did and been born later. Your know, after the vaccine was invented.

I'll be having my signature plate of mac n cheese, a roll, and stuffing since I don't particularly enjoy pie or turkey, but for the rest of you, I hear you can pick up your very own wild turkey in Bel Air.

gobble, gobble!

These wild turkeys are brave, man!

Normally, when wild turkey is walkin on the wild side, it's in the form of whiskey.

Which I only drink on Saturdays because a slight allergy to it makes my face swell and I can hide in my room all day Sunday.

Just sayin, If I was a turkey, I would be high tailing it to Maryland where it's illegal to shoot a turkey until spring hunting season.

or finding a blind farmer....

I find my breasts and thighs to be very important attributes to my sex life survival, and I plan on keeping them.

Although it would be neat to figure out a way to serve breasts on a silver platter. I'm sure many would be thankful.

In other news, men only buy underwear for 17 years out of their life and it's something every news medium wants us to know!

Why is this news? Does the media think us gals need to be told that we will one day be buying our man's underwear? Shocking...

And even more shocking! The reason men buy new undies! Entering new relationships!

Oh my God, really?! Well all mysteries of the world have been solved now! Who woulda thunk?

News flash: it's the reason women buy new panties, too.

raise your hand if you have ever claimed "moist" or "panties" as your least favorite word

now together: moist panties moist panties moist panties

Back to the point.

Not many women are wearing garter belts and see through bras to work or Thanksgiving dinner.

Unless you are banging your boss or live in Kentucky, respectively.

The black lace is reserved for Friday and Saturday nights.

I keep my favorite ensemble hanging on pegs next to my whips and chains.

Above a mini freezer filled with vodka.

I am a pathological liar.

So cheer up boys and keep your nasty underwear.

Behind that woman's sexy lingerie lies a big fat pair of tattered granny panties.

And if you're lucky, she bought em at Walmart. That way she can grab you a 3 pack of boxer briefs on the way out.

By the time your lucky lady is buying your junk coverage, it's probably time to spice things up a bit. Well look no further, you adventurous rascal, you!

Take your love button to La Villa Hamster.

Not only can you nibble on granola and dress up as rodents, but there's even a giant wheel to really get your heart racing before you take a romp in the sawdust.

Let's Get Furry!

I hope they have those fun little colored tubes to run through...