I’m not a Christmas elf, I’m a Christmas misfit,
I hear “’tis the season” and my whole face does cringe shit.
The Strip shakes glitter like it’s trying to get laid,
Downtown’s got sleigh bells and a hangover parade.

It’s December fifteenth, the air tastes like rum,
like tourists who swear they’re “low key” and then come
in matching pajamas, these horrible planners,
with mismatched directions, and no fucking manners.

I’m off shift, thank God, I’m in sweatpants at home,
my phone’s on Do Not Disturb, let me rot all alone.
I light one sad candle like, look, I’m alive,
and right on cue the universe says, “Bitch, something’s ’bout to arrive.”

First, the weather goes weird, like Vegas got moody,
rain on the windows, fake Elvis in a sad wet hoodie.
Then I hear it, a thump, a scrape, a shamble,
like a drunk guy arguing with a shopping cart’s handle.

Something lands on my patio, heavy and loud,
and I swear on this candle, I’m not leaving my shroud.
I peek through the blinds, like a nosy-ass cat,
and I see red velvet, and then I see that.

Santa.

Actual Santa. 🎅

Not mall Santa who smells like Marlboros and mint,
I mean old-school Santa with a magical glint,
white beard, big boots, a bag, and a vibe
that screams, “I’m Santa after dark, babe, count to five.”

He’s hunched like a craps dealer who lost to a chair,
he’s brushing off glitter from everywhere.
His coat’s got a stamp on the back that reads NO RE-ENTRY,
and his face says, “Yeah, babe, they tried to eject me.”

I open the door, because I’m curious, not wise.
He looks at my sunglasses, then straight in my eyes,
and goes, “Hey. You got water? And, like, some weed or coke?”
I said, “This is a patio, not a party, dumb bloke.”

He laughs like a slot machine choking on coins.
“Kid, I got 86’d. It happens. It’s fine.”
I’m like, “Santa gets 86’d?”
He goes, “Tonight, I did. Shit.”

He stomps inside like he pays rent, like he owns the place,
and I’m watching this myth in my living room space.
He drops his bag with a holy-ass sigh,
and says, “Vegas is different. Vegas will try.”

“Vegas,” he says, “has a naughty list fetish.”
I said, “Same.”
He said, “No, I mean, hellish.”

He tells me the story like it’s stand-up, like it’s a set.
He says he hit the Strip for a “quick little reset,”
wanted a break from the North Pole’s HR,
from elves with complaints and a reindeer PR.

“Comet filed termination paperwork. Cupid’s a mess.
Blitzen’s in therapy. Dasher won’t dress.
Mrs. Claus is on TikTok, she’s thriving, she’s hot,
and I’m out here like, damn, I’m a brand, I’m a lot.”

I nod like, same, Santa, same, I get it.
Then he leans in and says, “Also, Rudolph is petty as shit.”
He says he walked into a casino with movie-star bars,
asked the pit boss for a comped room and cigars,
called the host “sweetheart” with a grin too slick,
then hit the high limit like, “Watch this trick.”

He says, “I sat down at blackjack, I’m feeling insane,
this guy next to me is snorting confidence like cocaine.
He’s got cologne that could peel paint off steel,
and he keeps telling the dealer how she ‘should’ deal.”

Santa says, “So I said, ‘Listen, motherfucker, relax,’
and the table went quiet, like a record collapse.”
I said, “Santa, you can’t call people that.”
He goes, “Yes I can. I’m Santa. That’s fact.”

He tells me security showed up fast,
like they smelled the drama before it could pass.
He says he got marched out, still holding a cocoa,
still wearing his beard like a glamorous loco.

“And as they’re escorting me,” Santa says, “this host goes,
‘Sir, you cannot speak to other guests that way.’
And I said, ‘Bitch, tell your guests not to act like an entitlement buffet.’
Then I got banned for ‘tone.’”

Santa looks at me and whispers,
“Vegas hates a tone.”

I’m laughing so hard I almost spill my water.
He’s pacing my living room like a legend’s daughter,
like a diva with boots, like a saint with an attitude,
like Christmas itself ran out of gratitude.

He says, “Look, I’m not here to be nasty, I’m here to be real.
There’s a difference between naughty and cruel.”
And I’m like, okay, damn, Santa with boundaries,
Santa with morals, Santa with the rarest of candies.

He says the naughty list isn’t about sex, not really,
it’s about the little ways people forget to be silly,
the way they forget other humans exist,
the way they turn kindness into smoke, into nothing but mist.

Then he points at my couch and goes, “Can I crash?”
I said, “Sir, you broke into my home with a splash.”
He goes, “I didn’t break in, I arrived dramatically.”
I said, “That is still breaking in, mathematically.”

So I give him a blanket, because I’m soft, I’m not dead.
He flops down like a king in a nothing-ass bed.
He kicks off his boots, a little too thrilled,
and my house smells like peppermint rum spilled.

He starts digging in his bag like it’s a purse of doom,
and I’m half terrified, half entertained in my room.
He pulls out a gift, wrapped in shiny red foil,
and says, “This is for you. Don’t be disloyal.”

I’m like, “Santa, I didn’t do anything.”
He goes, “Exactly. Reward the not-doing-bad. That’s the thing.”

I open it up, and it’s not cash, not jewels,
it’s a tiny little card with a set of rules:

TAKE YOUR BREAKS.
DRINK WATER.
DON’T APOLOGIZE FOR REST.
IF A MAN SAYS ‘DEAL SLOWER,‘ SAY, ‘TIP QUICKER, BITCH.‘

I said, “This is… actually kind of hot.”
Santa goes, “I know. I’m a lot.”

Then he gets quiet, and the rain hits harder,
like the sky’s got feelings and chose violence, full charter.
Santa looks at my ceiling like he hears something breathe,
and my body goes, no, not this again, please.

He says, “You ever notice how buildings listen?”
I said, “Sir, I’m already in a spiritual prison.”
He laughs, then points to my light fixture, small,
and says, “That’s not a chandelier, but it wants to be. It’s trying. Let it crawl.”

I’m like, “We are not time traveling tonight.”
_{(🔗 Halloween ’77: The Night The Casino Chandelier Ate Me, And The Mob Put Me On Repeat – opens in new tab )}

Santa goes, “Relax, gabro. I’m off the clock. I’m not doing overtime in your life.”

He sinks deeper into the couch like a tired god.
He says, “Vegas makes saints out of people who play along with the facade.
It makes monsters out of people who don’t.”
And I’m sitting there like, yep, you’re not wrong, you won’t.

He says, “So here’s my new rule, listen close, kid,
naughty isn’t what you do, it’s what you let slide.”
He points an invisible finger at the air,
like he’s preaching to smoke and fluorescent despair.

“Naughty,” he says, “is the way you abandon yourself
to keep strangers comfortable, to keep peace on a shelf.
Naughty is silence when your gut says speak.
Naughty is working until you feel weak.”

Then he grins, and the grin is pure Vegas trash,
and he goes, “Also naughty is tequila and cash.”
I said, “Okay, there’s the Santa I recognize.”
He said, “Thank you, bitch, I contain multitudes, surprise.”

Morning creeps in like a whisper in shoes.
Santa’s snoring like a bear with holiday blues.
The rain slows down, the city looks rinsed,
like the Strip got baptized and instantly sinned.

My phone lights up with a dozen texts,
friends saying, “Brunch?” and “You alive?” and “What’s next?”
I look at Santa, asleep on my couch,
and I think, this is the weirdest damn thing I’ve ever housed.

He wakes up, stretches, looks at me like we’re old friends,
and says, “Alright. I gotta go fix my mess with amends.”
He stands, adjusts his coat, checks his beard,
then pauses like he remembers something feared.

He says, “One more thing.”
I said, “What?”
He said, “If anyone asks, I wasn’t here.”
I said, “Santa, your boots left a trail of glitter and audacity.”
He goes, “Exactly. Plausible deniability.”

He steps onto the balcony, the rain taps soft,
and he turns back, looks right at me, lifts his cuff.
He says, “Be good.”
Then winks and adds, “Or at least don’t be bad.”
Then he’s gone, like a rumor, like a hit, like a witness.

I stand there a second, quiet as a confession,
then I laugh, because what the fuck is this profession,
this life, this city, this crazy world survival,
this glitter religion, this nightly revival.

And if you ask me what I learned from Naughty Santa,
I’ll tell you the truth with my whole little mantra:

Sometimes the most rebellious thing you can do
is rest without guilt, and still be you.
Sometimes the naughtiest thing is saying “no,”
and letting the whole damn world throw its little show.

And sometimes, on December 15^th, in Vegas rain,
Santa gets banned for telling the truth on a felt rectangle, plain.
If that doesn’t feel like a prophecy, baby, it should,
because this town is a sermon, and I’m the choir in the hood.

🍒🎰🧃🌈🫦🎲🫦🌈🧃🎰🍒

👇

🍒🎰🧃🌈🫦🎲🫦🌈🧃🎰🍒