In any event, just as Dean's about to burst through the door, Sam emits a few inappropriate snickers of his own. "What?" Dean hisses. "It's just that, uh, well, you know," Sam allows, "Mister Gung-Ho Christmas might have to blow away Santa." Hee. Dean executes a perfect double-take at this before refocusing his attention on the foul depredations likely taking place behind Bad Touch Santa's door, and they finally barge in to find...Bad Touch Santa parked on his sofa in a stained beater, a bottle of Bushmills in one fist and a four-foot-long bong in the other! "The hell are you doing here?" the coot slurs belligerently while staggering to his feet. Dean shoots a horrified glance over at the TV screen and quickly realizes Bad Touch Santa's additionally been indulging in his apparent taste for bad Christmas-themed porn from the '70s, both from the bamp-chicka-wow-wow soundtrack and the dialogue which includes such gems as "Mistle my toe!", "Roast my chestnuts!", and "Jingle my bells!" To his credit, Dean thinks fast and starts in with a rendition of "Silent Night" so off-key, my downstairs neighbors' basset hound is now baying up at my television through the floor. Sam quickly picks up on the whole caroling cover and joins in for a horrendous duet, and soon enough, Drunk Santa's howling along with them. Of course, no one present knows any of the words past the first two lines, which makes the entire scene that much more deliciously awful, and finally -- too quickly, if you ask me -- Our Abashed Heroes slink sheepishly out of the double-wide, leaving Drunk Santa to conduct his private holiday party in peace. Hee.
Across town, a lovely and far more traditional version of the same carol kicks in on the soundtrack as the camera lingers briefly upon a gorgeous Craftsman-style faĂ§ade before ducking inside to take in the meticulously-decorated main stairwell, complete with a tree that looks like it's twenty goddamned feet tall. Something heavy unexpectedly trundles across the rooftop just as a curly-haired rugrat of indeterminate gender materializes at the top of the stairs, and a shower of soot cascades from the chimney into the hearth as the rugrat arrives on the main floor with an anticipatory smile plastered across his, her, or its face. The lovely carol comes to an abrupt and grisly end when The Thing In The Chimney growls and boots the fireplace screen onto the floor in front of the rugrat. We never do get anything like a good look at The Thing From The Chimney, but It appears to be dressed all in leather (or, more likely, given what we learn later, something leatherlike, but people-based) from Its head to Its foot, and Its clothes are all tarnished with ashes and soot, so that's good, I suppose. As the indeterminately gendered rugrat stands gaping in astonishment -- rather than screaming away in terror, because every single child on television is a drooling moron -- The Thing From The Chimney towers overhead for a moment before mouth-breathing Its way upstairs. We watch Its progress entirely from the indeterminately gendered rugrat's perspective, by the way, and the carol's kicked back in, because this scene wasn't nearly as creepy enough. No, sir.