It turns out that the jolly, fat man with the red, insulated outfit and black boots is nothing more than a happy drunk. We’ve all met that type, reserved until a little bit of Christmas Cheer gets sloshed into the blood creek that is making its way from the old bile factory (liver) on its way to the mood maker (brain). Once released into the think tank, the facial muscles pull up and out, exposing a tit sucking grin. Soon after that, short phrases are uddered (pun) and belly laughs are broadcast from the diaphragm. All in all, this is a very happy individual until the tipping point is reached. Then the behavior morphs as the inebriated individual has had too much to drink and will shrink into the brink of assholedom, that moment when the person is far from funny and is running on wretchedness. Lucky for Santa, he only goes through this phase once a year, and his physical activity is counteracting his alcohol intake, burning it up before he reaches this threshold and starts cussing little kids for what they really are, a pain in the ass. Laden with a sack of gifts and a couple of bottles of Jerk Daniels for pain relief, old Santa plies the night skies of a 3-day old winter solstice moving amongst the cities making sure all kiddies are singing their ditties of joy. As to the time frame of all of this activity taking place worldwide in one evening, in reality, it all happens at once. Alcohol is a depressant, and it depresses time until it stops, thus enabling Santa to accomplish his mission. You always see the plump chump dumping his gifts down chimneys in dark, cold climates, but one half of the world is in its summer solstice. Alcohol is a vasodilator, which means it lowers the body core temperature. That is why you never see Santa in a red tank top and shorts in Australia. He needs to prevent hyperthermia even in tropical temperatures. So, the next time you see a happy drunk with a trunk full of junk, playing some Christmas funk, buy him a shot of booze.