Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight)
I imagine, after all the fighting about the floozy with the ’54 convertible, after all the nights she sent him to sleep in the stable with Dominick and Rudolph—I imagine that, after all of that, on Christmas Day, when Santa’s done his duty and is kicking back in his Archie Bunker chair, that Mrs. Claus peels the old man’s red stockings off of his swollen feet and gives those aching tootsies a nice, hours-long rub.
I imagine her singing along with the ghost of Joey Ramone, on loan from Heaven because she knows that Santa has always secretly been a punk rocker. I imagine her singing to Santa, “I love you and you love me, and that’s the way it’s got to be.”
I imagine Santa giving the response to her call, chiming in: “I love you from the start, ’cause Christmas ain’t the time for breaking each other’s hearts.”
But that’s because I’m an old softie under this armor of sarcasm and despondency. Probably—almost definitely—what actually happens is that she gives him a look, a raised eyebrow, totally fed up with his bullshit after hundreds of years of marriage, and the only kindness he pays him is to not say out loud what she’s thinking, that if he wants his gosh-darned feet rubbed, there’s a broad with a diamond mine he should call.