Doug Clark: He knows if you’ve been bad, but this bad?

I‘ve often wondered how we could get the rest of the world to stop thinking of Spokane as that place where the creepy mayor tried to date high school lads.

Well, we’ve finally done it.

We will now be known as the Town that Cold-Cocked Santa.

The Jolly Old Elf was apparently KO’d by some mysterious unidentified flying object while the city firefighter was taking part in his union’s yearly Santa Run.

What’s next?

Will our charity bell ringers be rolled for their collection kettles?

Will graffiti goons spray gang signs on our church Nativity scenes?

Hell. Is nothing sacred anymore?

This is like having the Coen brothers rewrite the ending of “A Christmas Carol.”

After a night of ghostly visitations, Ebenezer Scrooge rushes over to the Cratchit household and STUFFS TINY TIM INTO A WOOD CHIPPER.

The fire department’s Santa Run is the very definition of a joyous endeavor.

A goodhearted firefighter dons the St. Nick apparel. He cruises through Spokane neighborhoods on the back of a flatbed truck that is decorated to look like a sleigh.

I know. I sat right beside a volunteer Santa one dark and icy night. I watched him hand candy to kids and make the season brighter.

This is about “ho-ho-ho.”

It’s not “ho-ho – THWACK!!!”

According to the news story, those who were in the moving truck eventually began to wonder why Santa had stopped bellowing good cheer through his loudspeaker. They found Santa out cold and bleeding like a stuck reindeer.

Down goes Kringle!

“They thought I’d spilled my hot chocolate,” Kevin Smith told a reporter of his facial injuries, “but then they realized it was blood.”

We can’t underestimate the emotional impact a Santa-bashing like this might cause.

Scores of Spokane kids could wind up in therapy due to recurring nightmares of Santa getting his clock cleaned.

It’s bad enough having to deal with the whole “is he” or “isn’t he” real issue.

I remember when I reached that age where my Santa faith was faltering. My father told me the best way to know for sure was to lay a Santa trap. Following my dad’s instructions, I spread a fine layer of flour on the tile in front of the fireplace.

I awoke on Christmas morn and scampered to the hearth. There before my innocent eyes were boot prints in the flour.

“He’s real!” I shouted. “Santa is real!”

It was such a relief.

At least it was until I looked in a closet and found flour dust all over a pair of my dad’s boots.

Oh, the pain. Oh, the disillusionment.

Had this not happened I might have turned out to be a completely different columnist. Oh, yeah. I’d be more warm, personal, insightful, honest, humorous and (mostly) G-rated instead of sarcastic, degrading and pompous.

(Hmm. Where have I heard those words before?)

Aw, nuts to that.

You have to hand it to Smith for having a cheery Claus-like attitude. Getting his bell rung and a couple of shiners won’t keep him from riding the Santa’s truck-sleigh next year, he vows.

Good luck. Sometimes the Santa Run can be anything but a warm cup of human kindness.

Back when I tagged along, the firefighters told me several tales of woe.

One story involved snowballs raining down on Santa. Another story featured this grouch who didn’t like the noise. The guy actually stepped out of his house and fired off a warning shotgun blast.

But that’s nothing. The worst anecdote involved three men who were standing in a gas station.

As the Santamobile passed the trio suddenly dropped trou, bent over and flashed Santa a triple moon.

Oh. Holy. Fright.