Someone asked me to play Santa Claus at a little affair for children this year.

I had several excuses prepared, such as "I am too young," "I am too thin," "Santa doesn't wear a goat-tee," and "My ho-ho is at the cleaners." That being said, I still could not escape the fake plastic boots and soiled and faded red costume, complete with a beard that smells remarkably like a fetid horror. I know this because I tried it once before when no one else would do it, kind of like now. I hope they washed the beard, if that's possible. I think someone tried to eat cake in it one year and then stored it in a damp basement. I guess it could be beneficial to keep the kids at arm's-length if Santa gets into the ho-ho happy punch.

The last time I played Santa Claus is still fresh in my mind - one kid urinated on my leg, another told me, "My Santa, what a big nose you have," and yet a third screamed so loud that I was deaf for an hour. Even with those wonderful happenings, one child stood out above the rest. The little fellow had a two-page list complete with order numbers from the Sears catalogue and expected me to memorize it. He also had other interesting questions like, "Where are your wrinkles?" (I left them at home); "Where are the reindeer?" (It's poker night at Rudolph's); and "Why are you wearing a fake beard?" (I got a little carried away with the new beard trimmer Mrs. Claus got me for Christmas). He seemed fairly satisfied with my answers, except for the fact that Santa can't recall his list by memory after hearing it read aloud once. I can see his logic: Santa can remember where every house in the world is but can't memorize a two-page list with order numbers. I told him that I would take the list with me to the elf factory, but he wanted to keep it to check off the gifts as he unwrapped them. I bet he ends up working as a warehouse manager or a shipping clerk at some point in life. After some apparently deep thought, he asked me very seriously if I was getting Alzheimer's, but he called it "olds-timers."

I just laughed and told him he better go home and be a good boy or I might just have a memory lapse when it came time to visit his house. "How would you like for Santa to bring you a complete Barbie doll collection?" I wanted to say, adding a ho-ho-ho that sounded more like he-he-he. But I didn't do it. I just told him Merry Christmas and sent him packing.

Even with the more difficult children, some of the kids will really touch you, like the little girl who said all she wanted was for her mommy and daddy to get back together, or the kid that said he wanted toys for his little brother because his mommy couldn't afford gifts for everybody. In those cases, you just have to put on that fake laugh and let them go with a pat, wishing you really could work magic. Too bad the real world doesn't work that way.

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