And he quietly picks up his Purple Jesus and retreats, sword in hand, roasted weenie on sword, to the corner where he proceeds to eat his weenie and sing his traditional songs of the season:

"Chet's nuts roasting on an open fire...."

and

"Oh by gosh by golly, it's time for Mary and for Holly,
Jessica, Erin, Samantha, Sharon --
All presents waiting for me."

and

"You'd better watch out, you'd better not pout,
You'd better be good I'm telling you why,
Santa Claus is dead."

All the songs he learned as a tender young lad as, clad in tattered rags, he sold burnt matchsticks to bloated oppressors of the laboring classes...and his mind drifts back to his student days, shivering in a garret whilst his stub of a candle guttered in the drafts, a moldy crust of bread and ditchwater his food and drink, but his mind hungering and thirsting for knowledge even though he couldn't afford the textbooks needed for the classes he snuck into, much less a warm coat or something other than a pallet on the floor..