Yes, yes, yes. It’s the mandatory opening paragraph to introduce Santa Claus’ exclusive column. Well, he’s here again to go on and on about himself, the run up to Christmas, and all the usual disgusting things he gets up to. Here we go.
Date Night – The Build Up
Alright? So Mrs. Claus was feeling a bit down because, apparently, I never give her no attention. What is that stupid cow on about? I give her loads of attention! Granted it’s usually me bellowing stuff like, “Get the **** out of the way!”, “Where’s me dinner, you slag?!”, and “Why aren’t me Y fronts spotless, woman?!”.
Anyway, this time she broke down in tears and there was an assortment of insults. I’m a “meanie”, “rude man”, “a rotter”, and a “****ing ****ing **** ***** *****rd!” That last one came about when I was there going, “Blah, blah, blah, blah…” and she lost her temper. So I really had to make amends as it’s not usual for her to be so abusive.
I need someone to wipe the muck out of me Y fronts each week. I need her around. So I made her a promise – a one off, extra-special date night! That shut her trap. She went off to “prepare herself” for our “romantic unification”. What the **** does any of that mean? Christ…
Date Night Prep
The factory is a disgrace right now. Even by my standards. Dead elf bodies are everywhere following my recent pencil/penicillin Santa mishap – this also led to the abandonment of my nude days. A right bugger, that is.
Anyway, the ensuing fire (that’s obliterated a third of my production factory) did at least destroy the smallpox outbreak. By killing half of my staff. The stench is unbelievable right now. To take my mind off it, I hit the bottle first thing. By midday, I didn’t know who I was.
In my drunken blackout frenzy, I came to the (probably dubious) realisation I’m an incarnation of Kylie Minogue and Vladmir Putin. I was soon wearing a skimpy outfit and prancing about the premises, interspersed with bouts of dead-eyed staring the likes of which Beelzebub would be proud of.
All the while, Mrs. Claus was off preparing herself for our “unification”. Meanwhile, I penned several new hit singles:
- Can’t Get You Out Of My Totalitarian State
- I Should Be So Unlucky
- Spinning Propaganda Around
- I Believe In Psychotic Autocratic Leadership
- The Wheels On The Bus Go Round And Communism
I also penned a deeply meaningful and beautiful love song. After much considertion, I named it: You Stupid Bitch. To show my love for my wife, I ordered a giant stage be erected out the back of the factory – to show that stupid bitch how much she means to me, I was ready for a very special concert.
I was drinking continually right up until 7pm – concert time! Earlier, my non-dead elves got the romantic candlelit dinner table set up. Plus the 50ft by 50ft stage was ready (all done in subzero temperatures, of course) by 6:30pm.
But this had a deleterious effect on my staff. I lost another 200 elves, to hypothermia this time, and that left me with but a mere 100 of the stupid little buggers. “Shit…” I thought, before penning myself a reminder note for a post-smallpox/concert recruitment drive.
Then at 6:55pm, Mrs. Santa Claus was led out to the table. She took her seat. Although wearing a fetching dress, it was clear she was already battling the early stages of hypothermia. I ordered my head elf, Markus, to stick a bobble hat and trench coat on her. After a couple of shots of brandy, she was clearly no longer in a state of abject misery.
Boom! To start the concert we detonated 100 pounds of semtex for a spectacular, fireworks-type extravaganza. Unfortunately, we’d sort of clumped all of this in one giant heap to the right of the stage. So it kind of just blew up, wiped out another 20 of my elves, and obliterated a quarter of the stage.
The explosion took place just as I waltzed out in a mid-air twirl. One side of the stage collapsed in a heap and, as I landed at an obtuse angle, I badly snapped my right ankle and fell over on my fat arse. Screaming sweet bloody murder, I took one glance down and saw the bone sticking out violently.
“AAAARRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! Arrrgghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!! AAAARRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! Arrrrghhhhhhshhhould… be so unlucky! Unlucky, unlucky, unluARRRGHHHHHHH!!!!” I went, trying to turn my unparalleled agony into a justifiable performance. I wanted good reviews for this goddamn performance, no matter what. That’s professionalism.
I roared at my elves to come out and help my to my feet. Several did just that, but the rest of my performance was marked by much screaming of agony. Not quite the high notes I was aiming for… but it seemed to win over Mrs. Santa Claus, who had a glacial stare (a potential smirk) on her face throughout.
At the end of the performance (naturally, I had to cut it short due to my severe leg injury), the second heap of semtex blew up on the other side of the stage. Although marking the end of the concert, it did in the stage entirely.
The whole stage crashed forward, whereupon a piece of lighting equipment smacked Mrs. Santa Claus on the head. In a coma, the elves dumped her in our doctor’s ward – she also has frostbite.
Naturally, I was in the ward with her as our current nurse, Freda, got my ankle in order. We’re really low on supplies, so it was a case of cauterising the gaping wound with a red-hot poker iron. To get the bone back in, she pummelled my foot mercilessly with a crowbar. It hurt.
But 24 hours later, my wife is conscious again and dribbling merrily. We’re both propped up facing each other in our respective hospital beds – I got our only alive cook, Dave, to bring in some instant noodles. I’ve eaten mine. The wife can’t move, so I ate hers as well. But it’s still the romantic dinner she wanted.
Then I got wasted on absinthe and started singing my hit single You Stupid Bitch. I can tell from the glint in Mrs. Santa Claus’ eye this romantic gesture means a lot to her. Especially the lines: “You stupid bitch/You’re like an itch/Of a gangrenous stitch.” Who said chivalry is dead?