Okay, so after the police warnings of last week there was time for a moment of repose in the Santa factory. Well, in other words I had to sit down and handwrite 1,201 (there have been a few gruesome employee deaths since my last update, hence the lower figure) Christmas cards for my elves. Apparently, and I read this on a business guidance website, it will boost “morale”. Okay.
It sure as shit didn’t boost my morale! I had severe cramp by the 100th card and took to drinking heavily by the 120th, which meant the general quality and sincerity of my Seasons Greetings dipped enormously the further I got. Indeed, some of the cards turned out to be a tad… deranged. I’m not embarrassed, though, as it all came from my overworked, enlarged, pulsating, globule that is known as my beating heart.
Here’s an example of one of the first ones I wrote. I decided to address my employees as X the Elf as it’s a nice little sincere touch. It’s a lovely Christmas card, with a picture of Rudolph embracing his fellow reindeer merrily (not that anyone knows they were all high on heroin at the time):
Dear Bob the Elf, Thank you so very much for your sterling efforts throughout the 2017 Christmas run. I appreciate you suffered a bone-crunching incident which left you with gangrene and in terrible agony, but I think you'll concur when Generic Child #30,001 receives her Barbie doll on Christmas Day and has a mental breakdown as she wanted an iPhone X, your impending limb amputation was worthwhile. With much general feelings of hearfelt enforced gratitude, Santa Claus
That was a sober one. Brilliant, right? This didn’t continue into the drunken ones. Some of my Christmas card designs are, also, not as desirable as the more traditional sort. One of the better ones, which I have left over from my nude Santa Claus calendar (which hasn’t sold very well, oddly… not even Mrs. Santa Claus wants one), features a picture of me stark bollock naked and pouting like Liz Hurley. Hot stuff, right?
biff the elf. i now i said i werent 2 blame 4 the insident with ur college dave gettin food positioned but i bought 10 tones of dodgy fallawful online an it turned out it had ammonia innit. the only way to get rid of it were 2 feed it 2 u lot. oh well hes dead now so lets let pylons be pylons. santa's clause
Now, Biff went and spread this amongst the other elves and they were pretty outraged and distressed I’d ridded myself of contaminated falafels by feeding them to my staff. Bruce, for instance, claimed he’d been vomiting blood since he ate the food and wanted compensation. I gave him a few copies of my nude Santa calendar and sent him off to our new nurse, Susan, who is skilled at injecting morphine. He’s been pretty docile ever since.
Anyway, here’s another card. I had been on a 48 hour binge by this point so was pretty unstable and excitable, hence the use of caps (i.e. SHOUTING, as I was roaring a lot of obscenities at that point in my Christmas Card spree):
HO HO HO HENRY! I WOULD LIKE TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR HELP THIS CHRISTMAS. I WOULD, BUT BECAUSE YOU'RE A LARD ARSE I THINK YOU'RE ONE OF THE LESS EFFECTIVE ELVES I HAVE, SO YOU'RE FIRED WITH IMMEDIATE EFFECT. PACK YOUR SHIT UP AND CLEAR OFF! CHEERS - SANTA CLAUS
Henry was a bit dismayed by this and came to knock timidly on my office door. Of course, as I was in such a Christmas card (and drunken) frenzy by this point, I thought I was under attack from martians. Seizing hold of my shotgun in one hand, and with my bazooka (no double entendre intended) in the other, I burst out of my office (once again naked) and began bellowing like Rambo in those stupid Stallone films.
“Luckily” those weapons weren’t loaded, but it didn’t stop me from chasing after Henry in a psychotic fit of rage. I really don’t remember very much after that. Rudolph updated me later – Henry has fled to Brazil in order to escape, as he put it, my “tyrannical rule” (!?) and I was found 12 hours later flirting outrageously with an iceberg and suffering from hypothermia. I was dragged back to the factory, thawed out infront of the leftover nuclear waste from 2015, and returned to my office to complete this odious task.
Cramping my Style
By the 703rd Christmas Card, my right wrist gave up – it, literally, contorted and jammed into an awkward position. I went to see nurse Susan and she tried whacking it with a hammer, but this only induced severe pain on my part. I suggested I hack it off with my chainsaw, but she said it wouldn’t grow back again. What sort of sorcery is this!?
There was no option left but to resort to using my left hand. Now, being right handed, this is a bit of a bugger. Writing with my left hand makes me come across, due to the scribbled nature of it all, like a freak of nature. To improve the performance of my left hand, I made Susan inject cortisone into it. I then downed 45cl of whiskey and prepped myself for the remainder of the cards.
Well… I did it. Don’t ask me how (because I can’t remember, as I was in a drug and alcohol fueled blackout), but I did it. 1,000+ Christmas cards. It’s fair to say the majority of them caused distress, as opposed to feelings of happiness (or whatever those cards are supposed to do), but the most important one I saved till last – Mrs. Santa Claus.
Any doting husband must treat his bird with the utmost respect. Being the highly desirable entity I am (although do remember, by this stage, I was close to collapse and really quite mentally unstable), I simply took an unsolicited picture of my private parts and texted her that. It’s been a few days, but she’s still refusing to talk to me. Women. God!