When I ventured to Mayfair Mall on Dec. 7, I wanted to see if a college student could have his own dreams for Christmas fulfilled.

In the midst of the Xanax mediated “It’s a Wonderful Life” — all is well and God is good manic euphoria of the holiday season — a certain someone holds the unchallenged distinction as the benign harbinger of Christmas-y cheer and warmth to the Western world.

No, it is not Martha Stewart (she would probably succumb to insider trading). No, it is not Bing Crosby (he is dead anyway), nor is it Jimmy Stewart (he is dead too). And no, it is not even Tim Allen (he is probably in rehab somewhere).

Indeed, the entity I speak of, whose physical likeness adorns coffee mugs, store displays and sequined Christmas sweaters as far as Jesus can save is, in fact, Santa Claus, our most treasured folk miscreant who chariots himself across the heavens every Dec. 24 at the whim of his reindeer flock, who, in this day and age, are probably teeming with Chronic Wasting Disease.

And the problems don’t start or end there.

Part of Santa’s job as the bastion of goodwill and hope for boys and girls from all over Christendom is to grant the mostly immaculate, though sometimes shockingly frugal requests of these children, rich or poor, strong or meek, bright or dull.

Many say Christmas is for kids, but I say that is poor public relations on the behalf of greedy charities operating on stipends from sophisticated international drug cartels. But either way, Christmas has got to have something for everyone, am I wrong?

So when I ventured to Mayfair Mall on Dec. 7, I wanted to see if a college student could have his own dreams for Christmas fulfilled.

My friend and I waltzed into the mall shortly before 6 p.m. and proceeded to the center of this palace of mindless consumerism where we expected to find our great big benevolent friend in red, jolly as a greeter at Wal-Mart, waiting to hoist us atop that cozy, cellulite cushion of a lap and tell us how good of boys he knows we have been.

And as we approached Santa right where we knew we would find him, he was already walking haggardly (possibly drunkenly?) out of his little pen without his red coat or hat on (that’s not how I remember him), his cronies (elves) hustling about to quell any civil unrest that Santa was not to return.

They quickly restored faith by putting a placard on Santa’s vacant chair that read: “DON’T POUT. Santa’s only on a break.”

Thank God!

Apparently, Santa was going on a 35-minute sabbatical to who knows where. Right then and there, all we knew was, Christmas really is just for kids.

I wonder, if I was a kid, and not bound to the rigidity of the final few weeks of the semester, would I have had the time to wait for Santa to get back from Happy Hour?

I tried to peek over the shoulders of children in line to see what their lists demanded, but they had no such lists, and for that, I hope they have no such luck getting what they want.

Since Santa never got a chance to ask me what I wanted for Christmas, I will share my reasonable list, since it is obviously too late for me to get into the holiday season anyway.

Patrick’s Christmas List

Dear Santa,

Could you …

• Reunite The Monkees
• Give me the power to turn water into wine
• Have the U.S. ratify the Kyoto Protocol
• Help get me laid
• Get me the first two seasons of “7th Heaven” on DVD

I think these are viable requests, but since none of these wishes will ever be actualized, I feel it is my human duty to warn of the immense weight of mystery and disappointment surrounding Santa.

I mean hell, for the modest price of $12.99, I could have had my picture taken with the big disappointment in red!

There were an assortment of other “deals,” such as multi-photo packages for nearly $30, and I would have paid the amount had I known this money was going straight into Santa’s pocket. Instead, when I asked one of his helpers where this money is going to, she ominously replied, “It all gets spread around.”

So the plot thickens, and suddenly the international drug cartel theory takes on a new dimension of plausibility.

We know Santa is dressed in red, but is this also because he is actually a communist as well? Maybe the North Pole is really in China, and maybe all those “elves” I’ve heard rumors about since I was little are nothing more than exploited laborers scrapping by on 26 cents a day.

Not that the U.S. and China are unaware of their own proud, patriotic lineage of exploitation, but I am almost ashamed that I did not realize Santa is actually the international agent in bed with both sides.

Hey, maybe it’s just a coincidence that you have to go to a mall to visit Santa, to buy a picture with him, to purchase your way into holiday cheer?

Not that that says anything about the character of Christmas, but it does suck to be one of the 30 percent of children under the age of 18 living at or below the national poverty level, I guess.

But you know what, gosh darn it, maybe I am just being too cynical and bitter, and maybe Santa Claus and malls and eggnog and store displays and kids and beating your spouse are really what Christmas is all about! Screw giving money to charity and feeding the homeless.

And if a quote makes a story, then perhaps this will not fall on deaf ears: “F-ck Christmas.”

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