As a child I used to cry when taken to see Santa, I knew that it couldn't be him. No way that he would be in my pre-school classroom listening to all the stuff my classmates wanted for Christmas so close to D-Day. I called bullshit on that one. So who was this impostor? Why would a normal guy want to dress up as Santa and let little kids sit on his lap, whispering in his ear all day. A pedophile that's who. Granted as a child I had no concept of pedophile but the idea wigged me out nonetheless. On the dreaded day when Santa would come to town, I would hide surreptitiously by the cookies until he left. Oh those sugar cookies, what fluffy delights. Though of course my pre-school teacher would eventually fox me out, telling me I couldn't have my present unless I sat on his lap. SEVEN HELLS WHY? I just wanted my picture book without having to sit on this cretin's lap and tell him fruitlessly what I wanted. What a waste of time! He didn't have the power to tell Santa what it was I wanted. Only the letters that my parents took one afternoon and mailed to Santa could. Man, they were gone for a long time on those days. How far away was that post office? I kid.
Even Disney World, a place of magic and delight, was not devoid of these horrific creatures. Goofy at every turn, shaking his body like a tourette's patient, his tongue perpetually out. And those huge eyes, what lay behind those black eyes? What creature, what sort of sweaty man? Nothing about him or any of the other creatures were okay. I'll watch a cartoon if I want to spend time with Mickey Mouse thanks. Not to mention they always walk over and immediately invade your personal space like that most annoying part of a haunted house, you know like that zombie guy that just hovers over you, not scary but merely like he don't know what else to do. They're just there and you're like "sup bro?" but they don't answer, they just breathe on you. That's what these characters do, they assert themselves into your day without permission. It's the only rape that Disney is capable of dreaming up and therefore just as bad. I'm forced to recoil and slither away as they over exaggerate their dismay at my dismay. Reaching their arms out to hold me again. Insert an internal scream of dismay here (I would point toward Liz Taylor in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf personally).
As a college student, I found that I'm okay with one of our mascots, but that's only because I spotted him without his mask-helmet on and know that he lives next door in a respectable fraternity house. As long as I tell myself that it's just that guy, I know his origin, know him to not be a raper, and am able to smile for a picture. Some solace is achieved.