Hello, boys and girls of all nations! I am Santa Claus. I go by other names too: Kris Kringle, St. Nicholas, Father Christmas, Tubby, Chimney Monkey, et cetera. It really all depends upon where you are from.
Now, people are somehow under the impression that I live at the North Pole and have enslaved legions of elves in order to make toys for all the good little girls and boys of the world. This is all wrong. First of all, I don’t live at the North Pole. It’s colder than shit up there. And when I talk about shit, you know I mean the cold stuff. Instead, I live in the south of France, where the weather is much more temperate, and where “Mrs. Claus” and my various other concubines are free to lounge by the pool with their Christmas gifts sticking out, if you get me. Secondly, there are no such things as elves. Instead I have enslaved children. Although elves look a bit like children, so I can understand how that mistake could have been made.
Third, my people don’t make the toys anymore. We used to, but when consumer electronics started to take off it was no longer cost-effective. Plus, we had children building these things, not electricians. I mean, hell, ever since Nike started putting computer chips in their sneakers (for demographical tracking purposes), they’ve been losing approximately twenty percent of their workforce in electrocutions every fiscal year. That’s no way to run a business.
Anyway, we buy all the toys from an independent contractor, who is himself not responsible for making the toys, but instead makes deals with toy companies all over the world to sell us their goods at bargain basement prices, or else the Eight Tiny Reindeer will show up and make things difficult for them. The ETR are among the most feared Christmas-related intimidation organizations, and have been for the last several hundred years. Obviously, I’m quite proud.
Lastly, I have stopped using “naughty vs. nice” as a criterion for who gets presents and who doesn’t. I mean, it’s so difficult to tell if the little girl or boy is really at fault. Suppose a kid puts ice cream in his mother’s nice shoe, or a peanut butter sandwich in the VCR or something. I see that all the time. Kids are stupid. It doesn’t mean they’re naughty. And if they did know what they were doing, maybe it was warranted. Maybe their parents were assholes. Parent’s an asshole, shouldn’t take it out on the kid, you know? Then there are the little angels, the precious little shits who are so good to their parents that they have little invisible halos over their heads – not to mention the brown stuff covering the top halves of their faces – at all times. These little snots are so obviously trying to curry my favor, and while it’s true that they haven’t done anything bad, per se, I still have an irresistable urge to put a boot up their asses. So, I no longer discriminate between naughty and nice. Instead, I just give the good presents to the kids I like, and save the Power Rangers shit for the bastards I can’t stand. So, little Billy Galverton of Odessa, New York, if you’re wondering why you didn’t get that brand new ten-speed bicycle, well, maybe you should look in the mirror and ask yourself that question. Before you choke out the words, you won’t be able to help noticing that you’ve turned into Billy, the Brown-Nosed Bastard. Santa got no time for asskissers, sonny. And little Kendra Dowden of Lexington, Kentucky, even though you keep stacking your Barbies on top of each other and making guttural sounds that give your parents the impression that you are preternaturally possessed of sexual knowledge – flames which you feed by stealing your mother’s vibrator and putting it in the refrigerator (on the dairy shelf next to the butter), and taking Daddy’s condoms and putting them out in the glove box of his Trans Am – Santa will continue to give you the good shit – computers, VCRs, baby tees – because he thinks you got style and class, baby.
So, if the children I’ve enslaved are no longer making toys, what are they doing? Well, they’re delivering them, of course. No sleigh or reindeer for these tots – everyone’s on bicycles this year, as we’ve had several vague terrorist threats from several non-Santa-loving countries. To alleviate the situation, I have purchased several Segway scooters for my deliverychildren to ride. At least, that was the original plan, but those fuckers are expensive. So I bought one for myself, and I must say, even though I am quite obese – disgustingly so – they get me from the bar to the boudoir to the kitchen to the toilet without any troubles, and as a man in his autumn years, that is really all I can ask for.
While the children deliver presents to you and your families tonight, I’ll be swilling moonshine and monitoring all of them. They’ll know not to misbehave or try to escape, because Santa’s got the detonator for those exploding collars that have been welded around their necks. I hope you enjoy what you get, because there ain’t no returns, Buster Brown.
Oops! Look at that. “Mrs. Claus” and three of her closest female friends are beckoning me into the hot tub. Who am I to say no? I may be Santa Claus, but I am also a man, damn it all. I think I’m going to have a very merry Christmas… maybe even five or six of them before the evening’s over.
So leave us! he said. Get the hell out of here!
Merry Christmas to all, and bitch, get me a beer!
