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Let's Actually DEFINE "Miracle."

Today is a short one. 


OK, here’s my gripe about “Miracle on 34th Street.” By my understanding, this time of year, Santa is busy as hell. Would he really have time to sit in some frickin’ department store in New York all day? I’m not nearly as busy as the fat man, and I don’t have time to sit ANYWHERE all day at any point in December.


Given, he’s a figurehead, and the elf union keeps him out of the workshop until he’s loading up the sleigh, but it just seems like a big waste of time.


Call me jaded, but if the little brat doesn’t believe in Santa, forget her. She’s the one missing out, and likely spoiling it for everyone at the schoolyard. At that rate, not only will she get a lump of coal, but probably a shiner.


Next, the creepy lawyer dude using the annoying brat girl to get to her uptight mom. Dude. Dude. You’re in New York City. You’re a good looking lawyer, you can do much better than some stuck up single mother who works at Macy’s. Seriously. And shame on said mother for letting her daughter spend this much time with a weird stranger who happens to be a grown-ass man who believes in Santa.


Here’s another one. The man can fly around the whole world in one night, but has to stay at a senior center uptown so he can get to work at Macy’s every morning? Really? Really?


And finally, in the courtroom scene, why didn’t he just bust out some Santa magic and blow their minds? That would have cut 20 minutes out of the movie, so I could get back to my real favorite, “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Sheesh.


That’s the rant.

Originally published on my old humor blog, Kwam's Rant.

Kwame DeRoche