I don’t know about you, but this Christmas I’ll be getting the shotgun out and leaning it against the wall next to my pillow. Call me paranoid, but ever since I became a father, there’s something exceptionally unsavory about some random creep coming down the chimney. I used to leave out a jug of whole milk and a bale of lard cookies to tempt the oaf into an slow diabetic death, but I don’t have the time to wait around for a case of the sugars any more.
That means Santa Claus needs to go in armed with more than candy canes and reindeer jerky this year. But with what?




