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It could be the reason I have no real feeling for Christmas is the claustrophobic and cloying warmth of it all. The soundtrack at this time of year clogs one’s ears with an overly sweet syrup of songs about homes too happy for my taste and hearths too inviting to be believed. I am surrounded by too many people who are just a little too happy to see each other, even though they have never seen each other before in their lives. All of a sudden, after making it through another dismal year of none of this type of “what a joy it is to be alive” behavior, it’s all way too hard for me to believe it’s real. (Or to stomach.)

It’s all beyond my comprehension. Or it could be I’m just a jaded prick who doesn’t believe in the magic this season possesses.

Yeah. That sounds about right.

I have never thought much of Santa Claus. Jewish parents make absolutely sure that their children will never believe in him during their formative years. If Jewish children did, imagine the madness that would ensue. We could bring down Judaism just by demanding that our parents recognize the reality of Santa Claus. But that will never happen, as Jewish parents destroy the whole idea of a gift-giving saint with the simplicity of pure logic.

“Really, how come there’s a different little Santa at every mall and store we go to, huh?” they say.

Or: “If there’s a Santa, then there’s only one Santa. There shall be no other Santas before you except the one true Santa. But he doesn’t exist, because he isn’t there.”

This one’s nice, too: “If you really think there’s a Santa, why don’t you sit on the front steps all night in the freezing cold and see if he climbs down any chimneys tonight. Good luck. And since we’re a family that isn’t lucky enough to have a chimney, how would Santa get into our house? Does he bring a locksmith with him? And it would probably have to be a Jewish locksmith, because a Christian locksmith is going to want to be home with his family. And how many Jewish locksmiths are there? None.”

Whoo.

As a result, by the time I was five, I knew that Santa was just some impotent cartoon figure. Or a slob in a red suit with bad breath who hung out at the mall.

As my parents tormented me, I tormented my Christian friends by harassing them for their ignorant, blind belief in a nonexistent Kris Kringle. It was fun bursting their bubble. If my parents were going to take away a bit of the innocence of my youth, well then, I was going to do the same to my friends.

So it was more than strange that four decades later I found myself on a film set, stuffing myself into a fat suit, then putting on the red suit, the beard, and getting ready to play Santa Claus in the movie Unaccompanied Minors. There is something daunting about donning the outfit of Old Saint Nick and all that it entails. There is also something completely idiotic about it. Well, except for the shiny boots. I admit, I kind of dug the boots.

Yet there I was, the red-faced man of anger—an anger verging perpetually on a stroke—transformed suddenly into the red-faced man of jolliness and mirth. The irony was inescapable.

There is a certain release one experiences when one is given the opportunity to actually expel a few Ho-ho-ho s into the air as Santa Claus, and thanks to the whole getup, one doesn’t look like an asshole. (However, you just can’t stand on the street bellowing “Ho-ho-ho” without some real trouble heading your way. Trust me on this one.) It’s not as liberating as letting a few Fucks fly, but it will do in a pinch, if you’re willing to look like an idiot.

There’s also something nice about taking off a fat suit and feeling like you’ve lost weight, so that your own fat doesn’t seem so fatty anymore. It’s a thinner fat. For a moment I felt lean and mean again, even young, but that good feeling passed as soon as I put on my own pants again.

Still, when I was in costume, the cast and the extras had to act like this was all very real and that I was Santa Claus