Maybe when you were five, he didn't get you EXACTLY what you'd shouted for through a sticky, candy-filled mouth.
Maybe when you were six he got up for a smoke break just as you'd reached the front of his line at the mall then proceeded to get into a screaming match with someone named "Donna" who yelled "I can't keep doing this, Greg!" and then never returned even though you waited like forever.
Maybe you grew up pour, as some sort of inanimate liquid, sent gushing forth from the lip of a pitcher, and thus have no concept of Christmas, or poor, because your dad was an addle-brained simpleton who couldn't hold down a job.
Perhaps you're not a follower of Santa and have long worshipped his arch-nemesis, actor Wilford Brimly, and so you want to strike a blow for your owlish master...
Again, your reasons are your own. I'm not here to judge you. (I mean, full disclosure, I'm probably doing that, but I initially came here for other reasons.)
However, a pretty good reason is, he's EVIL.
Kris Kringle... Old Saint Nick... Morton Jimbles... Gary Abramowitz Jr... Schmip-Schmap... whichever name you know him by is unimportant. (Angerton Waynewright, Lud Scrinch, Petey Larue, "Fatback" Holleran, if you know him by any of these names, there's been a mix-up, it's probably not the same guy I'm thinking of. Sorry, not Santa.) What is important is ending his reign of tyranny.
"But wait..." you say, in a high, unmanly lilt that catches in your throat at the end causing you to swallow awkwardly and me to question your virility, "...isn't he an okay guy? He gives us presents, isn't that a good thing?" In a word: no. In three words: No, it isn't. In eighteen words: No, he's dumb... guess I'll go back and count these words now, gotta be close to eighteen. Yup.
His pansy hand-outs that have kept this planet dependant on that red and white fur trimmed, egg-nog squirting teat for centuries. He's made us weak and soft and convinced us all a fat miracle man will fix all of our problems. We've relied on him for FAR TOO LONG.
Can you even imagine what we would've accomplished had we not spent all that time trying to act pleasant and treat each other nicely? How about all the trees we kill for wrapping paper? What about that crazed shopper who maced that newborn baby last week? BLOOD ON SANTA'S HANDS. (His red gloves make the blood hard to see, maybe that's part of the problem?)
I knew Santa was wretched from the start. It began when I was five. He brought my sister twelve presents (not counting a foil-wrapped, chocolate simulacrum of himself, which totally should count but I'm not a petty person), when on that very same Christmas morning he brought me ONLY ELEVEN PRESENTS. That's right, the number that is one less than twelve.
Two years later I asked for an X-Wing fighter like the one piloted by Luke Skywalker in Star Wars and on that fateful X-Mas morn I sprung from bed and ran to the living room only to unwrap some generic, knock-off called a V-Blade fighter complete with some Not-Luke Skwalker action figure sporting red hair! (Along with a pile of other presents I never even bothered opening because, why!? Fool me once, Santa...)
Every year more and more evidence of his rotteness piled up, until one year my parents - no doubt equally sick of Santa's bullshit - pulled me aside. I believe they were about to tell me of his true, dark nature. They'd obviously tired of this monster constantly dicking around their wonderful, wonderful child. I had just turned 19 and was heartily shouting my desired present list out an open window - so he could hear me and not have any excuses - when they approached me saying, "This nonsense has got to end." Nonsense indeed! They looked pissed. At Santa.
My dad grabbed my arm, letting his rage at the con man Claus momentarily spill over onto me. "We have something to tell you about Santa Claus." Finally! Tell me what the fuck this guy's problem is! Then, at that moment, my father collapsed. The doctor said his heart gave out due to stress. Chalk up another victim for Santa!
The next day I woke up and the rest of my family was gone. Kidnapped by Santa, probably. Occasionaly I'd see a woman on a street two towns over who looked exactly like my mom and answered to her name, but when I approached her she'd ignore me and run in the other direction. He'd brainwashed her, or maybe it was some kind of Stockings-With-Care-Syndrome that turned her against me. Anyway.
Here's your plan:
Grease your chimney with WD-40 causing him to glide down faster then he'd like before slamming into the hard stone fireplace. He'll emerge, groggily, teetering about like a broken-hearted drunk. Hand him a plate of hallucinogen-laced cookies, but don't mention the hallucinogens when you do this! Just say, "Have these cookies--" No, wait... Say they're "oatmeal cookies." Yeah, that sounds more believable. "Oatmeal hallucinogon cookies." No! Just oatmeal. Just say, "Here is oatmeal cookies, for to eats. They DON'T have drugs on them." That sounds totally natural. Nothing shady there.
When he suddenly sees ten of you, adorned with dragon wings, flap your arms, then slap him in the neck. He'll drop his bag and leap out a window, leaving you with his sack o' toys.
Maybe you should buy this book for someone who isn't terrible!