Socrates & Santa: A Dialogue
In a dazed state, Socrates opened his eyes. He surveyed his surroundings in utter bewilderment to find himself in a barren, isolated land. In the nighttime horizon, Socrates could see nothing but snow and ice for as far as his vision afforded him.
Where he was, how he got there—Socrates knew not. The last thing he remembered was drinking the poison he had been sentenced to drink by the ruling class of Athens, and then a bright light, and then…
Such an unusual interjection interrupted Socrates from his reverie, and he turned to the sight of an old man, chubby as the day is long, donning a red-and-white jumpsuit and a floury white beard.
Socrates: Why hello there, my new acquaintance. Would you be so kind as to inform me where I have found myself, here on this cold winter’s night?
“Why, don’t you know?” the man cheerfully exclaimed. “This is the North Pole! Ho ho ho!”
And in this instant the oddest thing happened to the already baffled Socrates. As he stared into the eyes of his strange companion, an intense feeling began to overcome him, engulf him, drawing him into a world far beyond the physical. When the feeling had reached its climax, and Socrates could no longer feel his legs nor his arms nor the frigid cold of the night, Socrates’ mind was infiltrated by thousands of words and numbers. Through some innate knowledge, Socrates recognized these chaotic symbols as details about this chunky old man who stood before him.
When the feeling had passed, Socrates spoke.
Socrates: Forgive me, friend, if I do not recognize you. Trust me when I say you should not be offended—I know not even how I got here, nor the date, nor the year. Alas, the only triviality about myself over which I maintain a fair amount of confidence is that I am called Socrates! But in the most sudden flash of insight I seem to have received certain details about you and your enterprise here on the North Pole. Please, allow me to run off these details to you, as I would like confirmation before we continue in our dialogue.
Santa: Ho ho! A flash of insight? That is most unusual, my dear. Well then, run them off.
Socrates: Thank you, my merry friend. If this mysterious insight has served me, your name is Santa Clause. Your mystical existence stems from the combination of two legendary figures—St. Nicholas, a bishop of the Catholic Church known for his generous gift-giving in the early fourth century, and Sinterklaas, a whimsical reimagining of St. Nicholas from the Dutch. In modern times, you, Mr. Clause, are famous across the globe, particularly in the more industrialized nation-states, for flying around the world on your sleigh guided by reindeers, infiltrating homes through the chimneys, and delivering presents your elves have created here at your base on the North Pole. As the story is told, you deliver these gifts annually, on the eve of December 25th. However, despite the optimistic beliefs of young children, you are, in fact, not real.
Santa: Ho ho! That is for the most part true, my very odd friend. However, your flash of insight seems to have misled you on one point: I am very much real! You see me now, don’t you?
Socrates: True. I certainly see you. But that is precisely what troubles me. In my time, I have seen many characters—albeit none so chunky as yourself—in dreams and in visions, whom I later discovered to be but figments of my own imagination. Forgive me if I desire somewhat more tangible proof as to your objective existence. If you will, indulge my ignorance for a moment. What does it mean to be real? It cannot certainly come merely as a result of being perceived, as we have just discovered.
Santa: Why, you’re a clever one! No, I suppose it cannot. But you must see, my most unwanted guest, that if we were to project your skepticism to its logical conclusion then, lay!, then not a single soul but your own could be accepted as real!
Santa: So, I tell you now, it is all about belief! If you believe in deal old Mr. Clause, then I must be real! And because of the unquestioning belief of millions of loyal children, I will continue to make the world a better place for centuries to come. Ho ho ho!
Socrates: That is certainly a very pleasant thought, this belief of which you speak. Unfortunately, I am riddled with far too many questions regarding the nature of belief to have experienced its assuredly joyous effect in my own life. I would cherish nothing more than to ask of you these questions, for you to relieve of me this doubt, but alas I am unsure how much time I have here with you, and so for the time being I will grant that you are real.
Santa: That’s the spirit!
Socrates: I would like to know though, if you would be so kind, how it is exactly that you make the world a better place.
Santa: What an outrageous question! You certainly are quite ignorant, aren’t you? Come, I’d like to show you something.
Santa snapped his fingers twice and in an instant a red sleigh, guided by nine fully-grown reindeer, appeared in the sky and landed before Socrates and Santa. They hopped in the empty seat, and away they flew.
The night sky, illuminated by the gleaming red nose of the leading reindeer, was nothing short of magnificent. Socrates stared in a contemplative awe as they passed glaciers and icebergs and open ocean and as green and yellow Northern Lights sprinkled against Santa’s enchanted carriage.
Socrates: The view is certainly dazzling, Mr. Clause. May I ask where we are going?
Santa: Tonight, dear Socrates, you will discover how my altruism, selflessness, and all-around jolliness serve to better the whole wide world! Grab the map in the dashboard, if you would be so kind.
Socrates opened the dash and out spilled a pile of assorted items. One item in particular—a Ziplock baggie of white powder—caught Socrates’ eye. He picked it up.
Santa took the bag from Socrates, opened it, and poured a generous pile of powder onto his open hand.
Santa: This, my old, rugged friend, is the spirit of Christmas. Without this, why, there would be no Christmas! My reindeer would no longer be able to push their body beyond the limits of physics, my elves would no longer be able to work twenty-two-hour shifts, and hot damn if I’d find the motivation to get up in the morning to the nonsensical ramblings of two thousand more spoiled kids. Prancer! Move you’re goddamn legs! Tell me, Socrates, would you like a bump?
Socrates: For now, I will pass on your gracious offer. I am looking at this map, however, and I am a bit confused about something.
Socrates: I presume these little dots represent the homes at which you stop to deliver your presents each Christmas. If my presumption is correct, then you seem to have the areas marked “Europe,” “Australia,” and “North America” pretty well covered. But for big portions of the rest of the map you have listed only a handful of stops. In fact, there is a quite significant portion of land marked “Africa” upon which you have written, in a large, bold ink, “LOL.” Surely there must be children in these great lands who are in desire of presents?
Santa: Look, I’ll let you in a little secret that the rest of the world knows but is too PC to acknowledge. We run a business here. This isn’t charity—how the hell am I supposed to keep this enterprise going on thank you notes and prayers? If you aren’t paying off Santa his fair share of cookies, well, not to sound crude, but you can go fuck yourself.
Socrates: That doesn’t sound very jolly.
Santa: My heavens, you’re right!
Almost like magic, Santa made the white powder in his hand disappear in one spirited snort.
Santa: That’s better. Hits the fucking spot! Ho ho ho!
Socrates: I’m glad you are feeling well, Mr. Clause, and that you possess justification for skipping over most the globe—as you said, you need to generate a revenue in order to keep your enterprise afloat, lest not a single child receive a gift. But surely you cannot keep your kingdom maintained with only treats of the sugary sort?
Santa: Ho! I can’t get anything past you, can I? Well, if your curiosity is oh so nagging that you must know how I maintain my monopoly on the North Pole, I suppose I shall tell you.
Socrates: I assure you, it is.
Santa: Then fret no more! I will tell you, dear Socrates, as I trust you possess the high class not to expose my arrangement—not that anyone would believe you should you decide to rat. As your flash of insight has no doubt made you aware, I maintain a large warehouse here on the North Pole wherein work a thousand devoted elves to manufacture gifts for the developed world in exchange for their fresh, buttery cookies. The Oreos, the Chips Ahoys!, and my own personal favorite, the snickerdoodles—Oh, how I get wet just thinking of all that cinnamon! What your insight in all probability has neglected to inform you is that I also maintain a second warehouse, buried two-hundred levels of ice below the first. Here, Socrates, is where my real enterprise takes place. Does this not intrigue you?
Socrates: I am most splendidly intrigued.
Santa: How jolly! Then I trust you will not give the reaction of some pussy liberal when I tell you that in this warehouse we develop vast quantities of weaponized plutonium-239. Ho ho ho!
Socrates: You mean to tell me here tonight, my portly pal, that you make nuclear arms? For what reason, I must ask, do you need those?
Santa: Have you ever heard of Jonathan Rodger-Arthur Clause, leader of the South Pole?
Socrates: No, dear Mr. Clause, I can not say that I have heard of this man of whom you speak.
Santa: Exactly! Ho ho ho!
Socrates: You bombed the South Pole? I fail to see how this makes the world a better place.
Santa: Chill out, bro. I’m only fucking with you! Truth be told, I develop nuclear arms because it is a necessary evil in order to maintain my enterprise and provide children with unimaginable happiness! Why, on two buyers alone I have generated enough capital to support my business for half a century! Ho ho!
Socrates glanced down at the map, and at this time two red X’s were abundantly clear. One was placed over a city called “Washington” and the other over a city named “Moscow.”
Socrates: You supply the two most powerful nations with cataclysmic weapons? Does that not mean the North Pole is at the center of a great deal of global instability?
Santa: Why do you think they called it the Cold War? Ho ho ho! I can’t say that these nuclear deliveries haven’t taken their toll on my employees, however. Just look at Rudolph’s nose, for Christ sake.
Socrates: Mr. Clause, you must forgive me if I pry, but—
Here Socrates was interrupted.
Santa: Silence! We have arrived.
Santa slung his slay to the side, directing it on an abrupt path curling downward, swiftly landing atop the roof of a mansion the likes of which Socrates had never seen. Santa jumped out of the slay with a certain depraved jolliness, motioned for Socrates to follow him, slapped one of his reindeer across the face—for no reason Socrates could discern—and leaped down to a lower-level balcony. Socrates joined Mr. Clause on this balcony, and together they peered in to see a woman in her mid-fifties changing into her pajama bottoms.
Santa glared at this semi-naked woman with a resilient lust in his wide, crusty eyes.
Santa: Just look at that ass.
Socrates: And who is she?
Santa: Just one of many of what I call “Santa’s groupies.” Ho ho!
Socrates: But assuredly, Mr. Clause, you do not fornicate with the women for whose children you deliver gifts?
Santa: Hush! Santa has said no such thing. Just between bros, though, I will say that I turned that pussy into a winter wonderland! Ho ho ho!
Socrates: To repeat my remark from before, I fail to see how this makes the world a better place.
Santa: Of course not, dear! Why, I was merely showing you that Santa’s abundant generosity doesn’t come without its perks. Come, peer into this window here, and you will see the magical effect of my existence!
Socrates and Santa directed their attention to the next window over, through which they saw a young boy, no more than seven years of age, playing with a set of small, colorful building blocks.
Santa: They’re called Legos. My elves made them custom for this kid last year. The little bastard hasn’t stopped playing with them since. Just look at that smile! Ho ho!
Socrates: I dare not say the child looks unhappy. But surely this does not justify the vast nuclear operation you have earlier revealed.
Santa: Why, of course not! For you are merely looking at one little boy, my dear Socrates. Now, multiply this kid by a hundred million over, and you have enough smiles to justify even the most catastrophic outcome of a few thousand incy wincy nuclear explosions. Am I not wrong?
Socrates: Perhaps not. But, it troubles me to say, I am unyet convinced. For, if you will humble my imaginative mind, would it not bring forth grand misfortune in the event—
Santa: Silence! Now you know my generosity! Now you know my grandeur!
Again Santa snapped his fingers, just as he did before, and again the reindeer flew to pick them up. Santa and Socrates reentered the slay, and off they went. No words were spoken on this ride back, as Socrates found himself in a deep contemplation of all he had seen in this exceedingly unusual experience. Some minutes later the two landed in the spot at which their encounter had first begun.
Santa: Well, that does it for your personal tour. Tell me, how do you feel now about dear jolly old Santa Clause?
Socrates: May I be completely honest with you?
Santa: Santa should expect nothing less!
Socrates: Well, according to your own words, you have intended to show me your altruism, your selflessness, and your all-around jolliness, but you have come off as nothing short of, in the strictest form of the words, a sexist, narcissistic, materialistic sociopath.
Santa: Yeah? And you have come off as nothing short of a condescending prick.
Socrates: I apologize if my questions have stirred something troubling within you. I have only tried to insert a fresh batch of insight into your most rigid certainties.
Santa: How about I insert a fresh batch of coal into your most rigid asshole?
Socrates: That sounds most unpleasant.
Santa: Believe me, it is. Depending on who it is doing it, that is. Ho ho ho! Well, if you will excuse me, it is our busiest time of year, and I have much work to do—the Easter bunny has been spotted hopping around the North Pole and God help me if this isn’t the year I put a clean bullet between that sneaky shit’s deceptive little eyeballs. I believe I have indulged your ignorance, excessive curiosity, and downright disrespect for long enough. Come, I will take you to my elves. You can bother them with your questions. I’m sure you will have much to bond over—you do share the same ears after all! Ho ho! Santa’s still got it!
And so Santa led Socrates through the bitter cold until they reached an immense factory building, illuminated on all sides by…
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