Santa Gives The 411 On His Tats

Before the mall Santas, before the Coca-Cola branding, before the elves unionized, Santa Claus was already a man with stories etched into his skin. Not the tasteful, ironic sleeve you get after a weekend in Austin—but the kind of tattoos that come from immortality, bad decisions, and an HR department that technically does not exist. Every inch of the man is a footnote. Every needle mark is a chapter best told after midnight, preferably off the record.

So when Santa finally agreed to roll up his sleeves—and, in one case, significantly more than that—to explain the ink, it wasn’t a flex. It was a reckoning. Love, loss, vengeance, and at least one inter-holiday beef that absolutely never made it into the carols. Here, in his own hoarse, cocoa-stained words, Santa gives the 411 on the tattoos he can’t outlive—and wouldn’t laser off even if he could.

---

Glowing red orb bathed in golden light from a hovering halo (left breast)- “For my boy, my ride or die, Rudolph… you crazy bastard… he loved the rock and roll lifestyle that being Rudolph afforded him, but I swear to the creator, he never saw that satellite coming.”

---

The name Blythe written out in very elaborate Christmas light text (inner right thigh): the name of the first Mrs Clause. “ It’s really difficult to talk about, even to this day. Difficult to think about, really. That Easter son of a whore has blood on his paws, and he knows what I’m talking about.  He may be pretty good at hiding his eggs, but he’ll never be able to hide his ass from me.”

---

Small snowflake at the lower corner of his left eye:  “I don’t like to talk about that one,” Santa says as the famous twinkle in his eye dulls to a somber ember, “it was a different time, a darker time… a time when the naughty list at times became a death sentence.”  It does look really cool, though.