Editor’s Note: Santa has his ultra-serious beard on this week! Now the Christmas run is over, he’ll be in hibernation until September 2018, but wanted to pen one final ditty for us prior to his slumber. Determined to shake off his cheery persona, he’s written this polemic which is a savage indictment of fame, the nature of it, and what it means to be Santa. Truly… this is an essay for the times.
On the Nature of Fame by Santa Claus
Hello readers – thank you for joining me. Due to the nature of my life, one must remain in confined quarters until the next Christmas run. I shall be hibernating with Mrs. Santa Claus and my surviving elves. Before I bid you farewell for another year, here are my thoughts and feelings on the nature of fame, which is becoming a tiresome burden on my existence. This is a cathartic exercise as I’ve been wanting to get this all off my hairy, flabby, malodorous chest for some time.
Part 1 – Fame
If fame is a drug then it’s uncut cocaine from the mountains of Columbia, delivered to my doorstep by some underpaid schlub who could never appreciate what it means to be Santa. Do not judge me, schlub, you know not what it takes to run my business, which is why you’re earning less than minimum wage and will probably be riddled with bullet holes before the year is out.
I am not the type of celebrity who courts paparazzi interest, but the media does persist over my status in the manner flies linger over a rotting corpse. This is to say, like fetid pustules of irrelevance hanging around an even bigger mound of effluence – me. Really, journalists, what possible interest could you have from me? You know what I do. I make and deliver presents. Get out of my face!
Regardless, there have been stories circulated, but never confirmed, about Santa Claus this year, namely in the tabloid press. An undercover journalist, dressed as an elf, was able to work in my factory for a month before I noticed him. He’s 6ft 1″ but, as I was so drunk most of the time, I just thought one of our elves had mutated due to the radiation on-site following the 2015 nuclear mishap. These are some of the slanderous stories he printed:
- Sexist Santa: Santa Claus seen pelting eggs at his wife Mrs. Santa Claus before ordering her back into the kitchen to “bake me 20,000 pies, you slag!” as “that’s all women are good for!” I guess I could have been more selective with my wording there.
- Sane Santa?: Following persistent articles about his sanity, a clearly inebriated Santa Claus was caught urinating in the elves’ cooking pot. When asked by our undercover journalist what Santa thought he was doing, Santa snarled: “I am Glibglorg of the planet Bad Breath. Dare yee not challenge my ethereal grandeur as I soar the plains of Herishnoo on my underpants boat!” [Admittedly, I was a bit worse for wear with this one].
- Stupid Santa: In another drunken incident, Santa was caught, on consecutive days, trimming his beard using his flamethrower and chainsaw interchangeably. Yesterday, he also dropped the flamethrower and an inferno ripped through his drinks cabinet. The factory ground to a halt as Santa’s Secret Grotto raged under a fire for 12 hours.
You get the idea. I can neither confirm nor deny these rumours, simply as I cannot remember any of them due to being in a booze fueled blackout. However, I can confirm the undercover journalist was caught and hung from his breeches on the factory entrance until frozen solid. It’s okay. He’s just a tabloid journalist.
2 – What is Santa Claus?
I ask myself who I am regularly, usually because I wake up from an alcohol-fueled blackout and can’t remember anything. It is a pertinent question, though. What has the nature of my role become? I have a few postulations on this matter:
- I am a jolly fat man who creates billions of presents for, primarily, kids so they can enjoy Christmas Day as mindless imbeciles before the inexorable passage of time ensures they reach adulthood and become balding, obese, bitter, and self-absorbed cretins.
- I am an overly wealthy tyrannical overlord who just so happens to have a pretty decent business functioning on the side, so am able to satisfy my bloodlust by hiring obedient elf weirdos who can’t put up much of a fight.
- I am as illusory as the the short and long term memory my brain possesses following a pint of gin. This is to say, I am a figment of my imagination and am actually Glibglorg and being controlled by aliens from the planet Bad Breath.
I’d say it’s a merger of #1 and #2, with potentially a smattering of #3. Ultimately, I have concluded after this year’s Christmas that humanity needs me. Without Santa, who would make all 20 billion presents? Due to this realisation, I am now charging double from the world’s governments for my services, although they have stipulated they will only meet my demand if my employee death rate stabilises. Goddamn red tape!
3 – Santa on Santa
Finally, I’m concluding this essay on what I think of myself and what I mean to me. I think Mrs. Santa Claus summed it up quite well after she caught me “accidentally” pouring a litre of anti-freeze into her broth one evening… actually, no, all she did was beat me with a ladle before having another nervous breakdown. Probably not the best example.
My relationship with my wife is pertinent, however, as without Mrs. Santa Claus, Santa Claus would have been dead many years ago. She washes my clothes, scrubs my underpants, tumble dries my speedos, cooks me dinner, props me on my side when I’ve lost consciousness, bathes me, and douses the many fires which erupt around the factory.
Without her, you could argue I would be lost – many a facinorous feminist, hearing of my “depraved” antics, has stated so. But Santa Claus is never lost. So long as I have the bottle, my business, and a big bushy beard, it’s clear where my future lies – legally breaking into your homes through your chimney and eating those mince pies you leave out for me. It’s the good life!