Okay, Earthlings, Christmas is just around the corner and Santa sent us a copy of his latest column yesterday. We had to edit it substantially due to the profanity and generally pretty bigoted remarks, but we believe we can now publish it today without offending multiple cultures and aardvarks. Enjoy!
Santa’s Exclusive Column!
Hey. Well… *sigh* (obviously I had to type that out, but I did just sigh due to the colossal hassle of this Christmas malarkey), things have been tough this year. Last year’s nuclear explosion and fallout may have been bad, but the plague outbreak from this year and the behaviour of my reindeer has made it testing times for Santa (as in, me).
I’ve recovered from my bout of food poisoning (after eating plastic food), but have now been struck down by a number of ailments. Male pattern balding is the most noticeable issue. Well, you know combovers? I’ve done a beardover. Yes, I’ve swept my beard around up to my head to make it look like I have hair. As for my beard, I’ve padded it out with snow to promote the genuine Santa look.
Additional ailments include gout (I drink two litres of whisky a day), constipation (I eat 35 mince pies a day), athlete’s foot (which is ironic, because I’m not very athletic!), a mild case of scurvy, whooping cough syndrome, and a severe bout of toothache. I figured, to get the latter sorted, I’d just yank it out with the traditional string around the tooth and attach the string to a door.
I got Rudolph to slam the door shut but, as he’s so stoned these days, the mediocre thrust he gave the door merely dislodged the tooth and caused fountains of blood to pour from my mouth and onto a batch of Pokémon toys. My screams of torment were, apparently, heard outside the factory, and the Pokémon now look like mass murderers. Oh well.
After the plague outbreak, I lost 100 staff members. Many of their festering corpses still litter the gangways in the factory; I got a bunch of convicts out on parole in to replace them. Unfortunately, being the dimwitted cretins they are, many keep tripping over the carcasses and doing themselves a disservice. Here are a few injuries (and the odd death) which have been recorded:
- Cutthroat Rupert tripped on a tibia and inserted his skull into a butcher’s knife making machine, severing his eyes and also his head.
- Mad Bastard Mark slipped on entrails and got his right foot jammed into an anvil making machine, crushing his lower extremity – we’ve stapled on a spare reindeer hoof as a replacement.
- Psycho Cyril became so traumatised working a 17 hour shift on the Disney Princess Be a Dreamer Makeup Vanity machine he returned to the workers’ kitchen area and began hacking at his face with a whisk. There were no survivors.
- Merciless Mildred lost all of her limbs when she stumbled over a pelvis and landed into a box of electric fans (Rudolph had carelessly turned them all on in an attempt to cool down the fever of his crack withdrawal symptoms).
- Easily Enraged Eric accidentally nailed his skull to a box of Barbie dolls after forgetting his head is not a hammer or a nail. He was pretty enraged about that.
- Lunatic Larry slipped on brain matter and decapitated his skull on a revving chainsaw one of my elves happened to be wielding.
- Murderous Mary was accidentally pulverised when she became entangled with a groin and, in her panic, rolled underneath a 10-tonne crate of Brussels sprouts which was being lowered. Yeah, that took a while to clean up.
As you can tell, it’s been a trying time. Don’t you worry, however! We’re on target despite the mayhem, just be well aware when we issue our official press release the mention of “blood, sweat, and tears” going into your products is very genuine. So you might want to get tested after indulging in any food or drink you consume, or for simply anything you touch.
The Caustic Clauses
Through it all, Mrs. Santa has been a bedrock of alcoholic abuse and senility. I’d like to say I love her, but then that would be like claiming I love Mount Everest. I certainly don’t love that terrifying monstrosity of enormity, freezing temperatures, and near certain death.
This isn’t to say we’re not fond of one another, as at the end of each day we share a cup of tea and, amongst her gibberish, ranting, and the spittle flying erratically from her mouth, I think I can catch the hint of a grunted: “I love you!”. It’s either that or “I’ll murder you!”, it’s difficult to decipher to be honest.