So it's been a while kids, but I put together a little Christmas story just for the holiday season. A few people had asked if it was possible for me to just right a story--one that's not fucked up or kind of demented. So I guess the answer is no. I mean I tried with this one, I really did. But it's tough for me to go against my natural inclinations as a writer. So I guess it's kind of an atypical holiday story, but hey, if you don't like it, you can go swallow some mistletoe.
Just kidding. Looooooove you.
Anyway, it's something short of a Christmas miracle, but it'll do.
Santa leaned back in his favorite chair, inhaled a substantial hit from his favorite bong, held the smoke in his lungs for a moment and finally exhaled, watching as the thick cloud floated towards the glittering lights that decorated his mantle.
Damn, those elves had done a hell of a job on this batch! Who says you can’t grow killer weed in the North Pole? Santa would be more than willing to put this herb up against anything from British Columbia, Amsterdam or California. As creepy as those little elves could be (and yes, after many, many years of interaction, Santa still found them creepy), their prowess for all things technical and scientific—including hydroponic horticulture—was nothing short of remarkable.
Santa took another healthy bong hit then returned the two-foot glass pipe to its place on the coffee table. It was incredible how Christmas seemed to come quicker and quicker every year. There didn’t even seem to be an off-season anymore. Once the gifts are delivered. it’s already time to start monitoring the lists, which were mostly bullshit anyway. The threat of coal was an intimidation tactic that didn’t hold a lot of water anymore.
But Santa’s criteria for naughty and nice had also undergone some serious changes in the past few decades. These days it took some serious shit to get on the naughty list. Now it seemed like shooting up a school or killing your parents were the only things that warranted a stocking full of coal. But things change. For better or worse, they change.
He could feel himself getting older too. That’s right, Santa can feel his age like any other man. And he is old. Very old. He’s also grossly overweight. I mean let’s face it, Santa has been exceptionally fat for quite some time now. He’ll tell you it’s glandular, but a lot of fat people will say the same thing. A lot of them are full of shit. After years of being known as a jolly, rotund individual, he’ll tell you he doesn’t want to shatter any archetypes or ruin any traditional images. It just wouldn’t be right. If kids expect a cheerful fat-ass in a red suit, that’s what they’ll get. However, in reality, it’s more about complacency and laziness than maintaining tradition.
But Santa hasn’t even been feeling all that jolly lately—just worn down and old. And things weren’t all candy canes and jingle bells with Mrs. Claus either. She hadn’t seemed as interested in him as of late. Certainly not as doting and supportive. For quite some time it seemed like his inability to conceive a child wasn’t a problem for her. He had expected it to be, but it wasn’t. He had even offered to look for a sperm donor, but she said it wouldn’t be right. If it wasn’t his, she didn’t want it. This made him feel reassured and confident. But lately, his insecurity regarding this issue was reemerging and he felt that Mrs. Claus’s nurturing and maternal ways were going to waste. And he was worried that she also felt this way.
Not that the blanks he shot had diminished her affinity for riding that big sleigh of his. No sir. At least not at first. She had always been very amorous and extremely willing to please. During the month of December, if Mrs. Claus were to run into Mr. Claus beneath the mistletoe dispersed throughout the house, she would blow him right then and there—no questions asked, just good old tradition. Needless to say, Santa’s house and workshop had liberal amounts of mistletoe hanging here and there. He even kept some in the desk drawer in his office at the back of the workshop. He so enjoyed those mid-day visits when Mrs. Claus would enter his office with purpose in her eyes, closing the door behind her and locking it to ensure the elves wouldn’t disturb them.
During the month of December, Santa would average three blowjobs over the course of any given day (and you wondered why he was so jolly). But that tradition had fizzled out over the past few years. Santa couldn’t even remember the last time his knob had been slobbed by his favorite lady in red. And lately the sex in general hadn’t been anything to write home about. It had become mechanical and unenthusiastic—sex for the sake of sex.
Decembers seemed to come with less enthusiasm every year. And Mrs. Claus didn’t seem to have the same appetites for him that she once had. They spoke less frequently and spent more time alone. Even their conversations—once deep, honest and beautiful—were growing more and more superficial. It seemed as though she was simply losing interest in Father Christmas.
And she wasn’t the only one.
The age at which kids stopped believing in Santa was steadily dropping as well. And the ones that did believe had much higher expectations. They weren’t just looking for wooden trains and aluminum fire trucks anymore. They were looking for Playstation 3s and iPhones and laptops and HD TVs and Blu-Ray players. The elves were exhausted and frustrated from trying to keep up with the technology.
And Santa had issues in the past with disgruntled elves in the workshop. During the whole Nintendo Wii debacle just a few years ago (a period of gift-giving turmoil even more desperate than Furbee or Tickle Me Elmo), the elves had been under intense pressure to meet the needs of many children hoping to find a new gaming system under their tree that year. And elves, much like any other overworked individual during the holiday season, can only withstand so much stress. Some elves just don’t have the mental resiliency to be workshop elves. Jerry was one of those.
Santa had been in his office at the back of the workshop (making his lists and checking them twice) when he heard the first blast. Upon opening his office door, Santa had expected to find a malfunctioning machine, but instead saw Jerry with a rifle in hand, firing indiscriminately at his elf brethren. Larry was the first to go, his little elfin head—containing more blood and brains than anyone could have imagined—splattered all over the Christmas tree that decorated one corner of the workshop. The next shot caught Toby in the back, spraying a dark crimson burst on a row of half-assembled toys. The fury in Jerry’s eyes was unwavering and Santa held his breath as the rifle was aimed at his chest. The rest seemed to happen in slow motion. The shot rung out and at the last moment, Santa closed his eyes only to open them and find Gary at his boots. Nobel little Gary had thrown himself in front of the bullet intended for Santa. His blood stained Santa’s beard and face.
A few other brave elves jumped on Jerry to stop him, but not before he managed to put the shotgun beneath his chin and decorate the ceiling with his brain matter. Never before had such a deplorably tragic event tainted the holiday. Sure, the elves had their drama—who’s sleeping with who, how much meth is being produced behind Santa’s back (sometimes they need a little help to get through the long nights), maybe even a fist fight here or there—but the stressful times leading up to Christmas were usually treated with pot, Xanax, sex or booze. An elf snapping so severely had never even been considered before that point.
Of course this is an incident that could not be forgotten, even after time, and it lent itself to Santa’s increasingly solemn nature. The idea that elves—a race generally more diligent, jovial and caring—were susceptible to the exceptional pressures of the holiday season was very disconcerting. If elves could snap under the stress, what did that say about people? No wonder suicide rates always jumped during the holiday season.
And of course, a lot of people just didn’t care anymore, unless they were stretching out open hands for the gifts they thought they deserved. They had no respect or concern for the amount of effort that went into the whole Christmas production. They just assumed the magic took care of the legwork. Abra-fucking-cadabra—here’s your Xbox! Really, it’s no trouble at all.
Ha! Ingrates!
Sure, the magic helped. None of this could be accomplished without it. Hell, most reindeer aren’t born to fly. The world’s presents would never fit into one bag (no matter how big). And with Santa’s impressive circumference, he wouldn’t be able to fit down too many chimneys. So the magic was a big part of it. But it still took a lot of late nights, a lot of deadlines and a lot of stress.
And it used to all be worth it. He used to think he had the greatest job in the world—wouldn’t trade it for anything. He used to be able to feel the love and affection that went out to him. It was truly awe-inspiring.
But now he was beginning to feel unappreciated and taken for granted.
It wasn’t even just about him. Believe me, Santa is not that egotistical or self-pitying. It was also about Christmas in general. And I’m not talking about a lack of interest in the religious aspects (let’s face it, Santa himself is pretty secular… he’s never even been to church), but all the warmth and sentiment associated with Christmas was evaporating from the world like a day-old rain puddle. Joy? Compassion? Love? Not so much. Santa had even watched a story on satellite TV about a store employee that was trampled to death on Black Friday by a herd of aggressive, thoughtless shoppers. Just watching the news report had made him nauseous.
Santa reached for the table and picked up the bong again. He took a hit and put it down on the floor next to his armchair. He then picked up a candy cane out of the small dish on the coffee table. Good old-fashioned peppermint. He had had a brief love affair with the fruit-flavored ones—they were new and different for a time—but in the end he always came back to peppermint.
With only a few days before Christmas, he knew the elves would still be at work in the shop. It seemed like a good idea to head back and check on them. They always responded well to a motivational speech from the big guy. After all, he was a rather impressive orator. Candy cane in mouth, Santa rose from his chair, but had forgotten the bong was by his feet. In one awkward motion, Santa kicked over the bong and fell to the floor with the candy cane lodging itself in his throat.
He tried to call for help, but the candy blocked his airway. In an act of desperation, he kicked over the nearby coffee table, hoping Mrs. Claus was close enough to hear it. Six or seven years ago she would have almost certainly been in that room with him, but with their increasing distance, he imagined she was on the other side of the house.
As the room grew darker around him, he felt a surprising sense of relaxation—freedom, if you will. He was almost grateful to be relieved of his esteemed position while Christmas had some lingering sense of warmth still associated with it. Did this remaining bit of goodness die with him? What kind of work did his successor have in front of him? He imagined all these questions would be answered eventually, but he was content to know that he had his memories of the good times.
In his last struggling breath, he pictured Mrs. Claus entering his workshop office, face aglow with everything he used to love about Christmas. She closes the door and advances on him, leaning down and offering him a loving kiss. As their lips separate, she mouths the words that mean the world to him. She runs her soft hands through his hair and he holds onto this sensation as he loses consciousness completely.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
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