Even back when I still believed Santa Claus was an actual dude with an actual mailing address inside the Arctic Circle, with an actual toy shop staffed mostly by elves (blah blah blah), I felt, deep down in that dark and vacant space where my soul should have been, that Things Weren’t Right.

Children know monsters exist. Even toddlers understand that evil lurks [see Bruno Bettelheim’s The Uses of Enchantment and that study where kids were given fairy tales with the scary parts removed, and they got so pissed off they attacked their teachers’ kneecaps]. Rugrats resent the hell out of adults who pretend otherwise. I certainly did. Which is why the unipolar morality of the Santa story never sat well with me: goodness is rewarded, but evil goes unpunished.

All year long, the promise of every materialistic dream a child may have coming true on Christmas morning is dangled in front of their beady little eyes on the condition of “good” behavior. I always assumed there was some kind of sliding scale: if your behavior was saintly all year, you get everything on your list plus bonus loot. If you were decent for eight months but a prick the rest of the time, maybe you only get a third. But what of the little bastard who is rotten every single day? According to the Santa story, nothing. Not a gpddamn thing. Santa still shows up, maybe leaves a lump of coal. Big deal.

So the neighborhood terror can spend all year lowering property values and ruining lives, then stroll over to Goody Two-Shoes’ house on December 26th, whack him over the head with a board, steal his toys, and swagger home. Ludicrous. Unjust. Existentially unsound. There can be no light without darkness, no goodness without evil. Children know this innately.

But in Disneyfied, bubble-wrapped America, parents quake at the thought of damaging their little snowflakes’ eggshell psyches. Teachers are told not to grade in red pen because red is “too violent.” Little league games don’t keep score because someone might lose. And the results are tragic: entire generations who cannot conjugate the verbs “to lose” or “to fail.”

I say Enough. Ya basta! Children are far hardier than they’re given credit for. Which is why I propose we reset Christmas and celebrate it properly — by resurrecting the full story from Europe: the tale of Santa’s dark counterpart, Krampus.

If Santa Claus is a right jolly old elf, then Krampus is a bad-ass Christmas demon. If Saint Nick is benevolent generosity, Krampus is divine retribution. He’s a satanic-looking satyr with massive horns and a bifurcated tail, draped in noisy chains and cowbells, wielding pointy sticks with which he beats the hell out of children who’ve been assholes all year. And if the offenses are more than venial? Krampus doesn’t just beat them — he drags them to hell, dismembers them, or eats them right there in front of God and everybody. Don’t bother running to Santa for help. Santa and Krampus are drinking buddies, existential pals who clink steins at the biergarten while swapping stories about naughty brats.

And Krampus doesn’t stop at punishing kids. No, when he’s not dispensing yuletide justice, he’s goosing attractive women and licking faces like Rick James on a crackful night. Krampus is a straight-up poon hound. Unlike that grandfatherly twat Santa Claus, ever the family man, Krampus crushes mad ass on the reg. There is no Mrs. Krampus. He doesn’t need one. He’s got game, and he wants to fist your mother after he eats your soul.

Speaking of eating, don’t bother leaving cookies and milk. Krampus is lactose intolerant and immune to baked goods bribery. Whiskey and steak might buy you a few seconds, but ultimately, there’s only one way to avoid his wrath: walk the path of righteousness, and avoid assholishness the rest of the year.