The house is packed full of partyers dressed to the nines, and there's more alcohol than any reasonable group of people could hope to consume. Good thing Santa ("We were lucky enough to get the real Santa at this party," says the hostess) is here to help with the drinking. Here are things that Santa enjoys: "Rummaging through your underthings," talking in the third person, the Bloods dominating over the Crips, flipping off the girl he's dancing with, wrestling the girl he's dancing with, making out with the girl he's dancing with, and also he's "not as against fisting as you might initially think."

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The next night, Santa's nowhere to be found at a warm gathering in a First Hill apartment. Instead, there's a self-described "world-champion fag hag" who's talking about her roommate's yule log: "Seriously, I saw it one time, and now I call him Mr. Snuffleupagus. He's fucking huge down there!" The roommate in question rushes over and claps his hand over her mouth, but too late: Everyone in the room is already looking at him differently. It's all among a good group of friends, though, and the atmosphere couldn't be nicer, especially when the host introduces a friend of his, an honest-to-God opera singer from Tacoma, who agrees to sing a little number for the party. I'm a full-blown atheist who hates Christmas, but listen: No matter who you are, when you have a really good singer belting out a sublime "O Holy Night" about three feet from you, you can't help but get a little teary-eyed at the beauty of it all.

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