The season isn't happy for everyone
"Welcome back, Mr. Smith," the psychiatrist said, motioning a small, slump-shouldered man into his office.
The little man walked in, his red fur suit wrinkled and frumpy. His big belly no longer shook like a bowl full of anything. The sad, little man sat on the psychiatrist's leather couch and sighed.
"This may come as quite a shock, by my name's not Smith. It's Kris Kringle, doc," said the once-jolly elf.
The psychiatrist smiled.
"Yes, of course. Now, tell me why we're visiting this morning."
Kris Kringle sighed and rubbed his tired eyes.
"I'm always sad at Christmastime. The rush, the noise, it's such a crime. It all starts before Halloween. I miss Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, things between."
The psychiatrist nodded.
"The holiday season depresses a lot of people Mr., uh, Kringle. What is it about Christmas that brings you down?"
The round, little man stirred slightly on the couch, balling his black-gloved hands into fists.
"Christmas used to be about sharing and family and love. Now people just shop and scream and shove."
The psychiatrist scribbled down some notes.
"And you feel somehow responsible for this?"
Kris nodded.
"I once served a noble cause," he said. "Bringing joy, rewards, applause. But commercial minds offered a deal. With fame, success and sex appeal.
"Now it's out of my control. I signed away my very soul. I'm doing things against my will. I'm nothing more than a corporate shill."
"Uh, Mr. Kringle," the psychiatrist interrupted. "Do you always speak in verse?"
The sad, fat elf frowned.
"It's in my contract, I'm afraid. If I don't rhyme, I won't get paid."
The psychiatrist nodded.
"So you're upset at what corporate America has done to a once-selfless holiday?"
Kris Kringle nodded.
"What happened to shepherds keeping watch over their flock by night?" he asked. "And visiting angels giving them such a fright?
"Joseph and Mary finding no room at the inn? And glory and peace and good will toward men...?"
The psychiatrist smiled.
"I think Linus said that in A Charlie Brown Christmas," he said.
A light finally twinkled in the round fellow's eyes.
"Then I'll rent it and watch it and I'll shout, that's what Christmas is all about!'" Kris Kringle said, then checked his watch. "But I need to fly, my fire's sparked. And I've left my reindeer double-parked."
"Great, great. I think we've made some real progress here," the psychiatrist said, scratching something on a piece of paper and handing it to Kris Kringle. "But I think you should have this prescription filled and get back with me after the holidays. You'll feel lots better once the Zoloft kicks in, Mr. Smith."
"Uh, Kringle," the fat man said. "Kris Kringle."
"Of course it is. Now, you go home, get plenty of rest and have a merry Christmas."
