His festive shadow was casting doubt on past glories. "Why do good things have to be replaced by bad things," he wondered while sipping on a tall glass of burning hot eggnog.

The rearview mirror of his one-track mind cracked under the pressure that had been building up in his sinuses since birth. The eggnog probably wasn't helping his mucous problems. Call it "congestion" if it pleases you.

You have to understand that Tom was never a glass-is-half-full or half-empty kind of guy. He simply drained whatever glass was in front of him, regardless of volume—drowning his feelings like wishful coins down a metaphorical well of obsolescent obedience.

His head throbbed from the Christmas music blaring from the television set. The cheerful tunes threatened his devastation with memories of acquitted dreams. His heavy jowls strained to crack a smile. They nearly succeeded but were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" he snorted.

No response.

"Goddamnit," he muttered as he climbed the invisible gravity slope in a triumphant return toward bipedalism.

At that precise moment, he realized his life had not been wasted, as many of his inner voices had often suggested. In a brilliant flash of light, he was on the cusp of revelation when a second knock shocked and severed his epiphany.

He waddled over to the door, exhaled an imprisoned breath, and opened it. Nothing could have prepared him for this unlikely (albeit predictable) visitor.

It was Santa Claus, but not as you picture him. In this iteration of the gifting grifter, Santa Claus is a 7-foot-tall penguin with a twisted goatee and a shotgun for an arm. Tom immediately broke into tears, shattering his 39-year record of waterwork suppression.

The weight of his worries leaped from his weary bones. His sorrow turned to joy, and his fears melted away like butter in a hot pan. He recalled the smell of his Grandmother's french toast as he fell back into his rocking chair.

Santa Claus strutted over and situated himself on Tom's lap. He kissed him deeply as both began exploring each other’s wonderland. Their hearts grew jolly. Tom was about to round second base when Mrs. Claus walked in, appalled by the dorm-room display of affection.

Santa and Tom were understandably apprehended by the unexpected interruption. Mrs. Claus scolded them both for their reckless use of time and casually explained that they should feel terrible for succumbing to their primal urges without her.

She made some wisecrack about the naughty list, and they all burst into laughter like a pack of drunken hyenas. It was a Christmas miracle.