In a sense, the death of the Santa Claus myth brings ultimate clarity to the parent-child relationship as it pertains to Christmas. But while that means that you can now lobby for the big-ticket items on your wish list and search the house for boxes to shake, it also means that there is no magical fat man to blame when things go horribly wrong and you wind up with practical gifts like pants and worm medicine for your cat.
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Or socks, used mainly to wipe away tears of disappointment.
Nothing emulates the sound of a heart tearing like the noise a Trapper Keeper's velcro makes when pulling apart on Christmas morning, does it?
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