Santa’s coming Thursday night. He’s coming to your home. And he’s going to drink your milk.
Don’t have any milk? Well, that’s your problem, buddy, and you’ve got three days to figure it out before Santa comes plopping down the chimney, draws a big line through your place on the nice list, and fills your stocking up with coal.
It’s a dangerous year for Santa. He’s old (see: “the beard on his chin was as white as the snow”). He’s overweight (see: “He was chubby and plump”). He’s been living at the North Pole all year, and this is his busy season, and those things are not recipes for the strongest immune system. So when Santa comes into your coronavirus-infested home, you bastards better have the biggest glass of milk Santa’s ever seen waiting beside that fireplace.
Consider this your warning.
