One of the many things that makes me a bad person: black humor. No I don’t mean “soul humor.”

The other day, Ame and I were at Garden Ridge Pottery (If you don’t have one in your area, think a really big arts & crafts store), and on one of the bargain tables there was book titled The Bump on Santa’s Noggin. It was kind of cute until I thought about it a little further.

Ostensibly, one can assume the book is about how Santa hits his head and forgets Christmas. Of course this is a feel-good book, so he recovers his memory somehow (probably by huffing “reindeer dust” or something) and Christmas is saved, the end. Why does one lose their memory in the first place from a blow to the head? Brain damage. A better title would be Santa Gets TBI.

I knew it was bad, but I started chuckling in the store, trying to keep it to myself (yeah, right). Ame asked me what was so funny, so I told her and started laughing harder. I swear she thought it was at least a little funny, but she’d never admit it. In truth, TBI is no laughing matter, but that’s what makes it so funny! I told you, black humor.