Santa was “too unconscious” this week, so Mrs. Santa Claus has taken over his writing duties. She had no idea what to write, but after our suggestion to document a day in her life she was okay with that. This is the result. Please ensure no feeble minds read this – for it is a startling document on Santa’s life.
Mrs. Santa Claus
Dearie me, hello to the Professional Moron readers. I consider it best to fill in for Mr. Santa Claus (my lovely husband) this week as he’s too drunk to write anything! Whoopsie!
I should point out that doesn’t happen often, as he snowballs cocaine and other amphetamines for an energy boost to carry himself through the drunken exhaustion. He’s such a trooper.
It’s unusual to have him so unconscious, so I have to use a diary I wrote before his spell of sleepy bo-bos. This way you can get an understanding of my day-to-day activities here in Santa Land.
Sunday – 25th November 2018
Good gracious! Mr. Santa Claus awoke with such a frightful bellow! His roaring, obscenities, and screaming continued for much time. Eventually, we summoned the factory nurse who calmed his raging with a shot of morphine.
“Does he have rabies!?” our head elf, Markus, cried in dismay. “Oh don’t be silly, Markus!” I kindly reminded him. “Santa is just having a bout of severe, life threatening alcohol withdrawal. We’ll sedate him for several days until he’s over the worst. Exactly like last time. And the time before that. And the… etc.”
It turns out we’re low on the various drugs Santa needs to enter a type of hibernation. So I got the elves to drip feed him alcohol to balance out his system.
Now the morphine has worn off I asked him, “Are you okay, dearie?” It took him a while to muster a response, poor man. In fact, I’m still waiting on it. It shouldn’t take too long, he’s making this gurgling and straining noise so some retort is on the way, of that I am sure.
“YOU ****ING BASTARD!!!!” And with that, my hubby is back. He was straining wildly too, clearly trying to right himself to throttle either myself, the nurse, or Markus. Perhaps all three. Hah! There’s really no stopping that man sometimes. He’s such a character.
Mild calamity. Santa burst free from his restraints. Salivating wildly, he’s surging through the factory with his favourite shotgun. Luckily, it’s not loaded. But he’s still difficult to get under control because he keeps screaming about the “gangrenous hippies”. We’re not quite sure what he means.
Santa has locked himself into the plastic vomit R&D department. He said that plastic vomit was going to be big for Christmas 2018. Unfortunately, demand for the product is at an all time low, so our stakeholders are dissatisfied and he’s feeling the pressure a bit.
He said he’s, “Holding all this vomit to ransom until you mother ****ers get your act together!” I’m calling out to him in the hope my voice makes him see sense. However he just shouted back, “Shut the **** up you stupid woman, you belong in the kitchen!” Charm like that has kept me with this wonderful man for all this time!
The reindeer are tempting Santa out into the open with mince pies placed on the floor outside the R&D department. Santa is salivating wildly and clearly in much personal torment about whether to open the door or not. Rudolph is standing on the roof ready to pounce on him should this plan work. Fingers crossed!
After an hour, Santa finally gave in to temptation and rushed out to eat my delicious homemade mince pies! Rudolph pounced with the net. Everyone held their breath… and, unfortunately, Rudolph’s night of heavy drinking meant he missed the target by several feet. He also banged his head on the floor, knocking himself out. Fiddlesticks!
Santa made a break for it to the factory roof. There’s a major snowstorm out there right now. I hope he doesn’t catch a chill!
I can hear Santa bellowing obscenities from the roof right now. Gosh, I’ve rarely seen him so worked up! I better put my bobble hat and furry coat on and head out to see how he’s doing.
Okay, so Santa was blown from the roof in the gale and crashed into the floor below. Unfortunately, but also fortunately, he hit a thin patch of ice and plunged through into the icy cold North Pole water.
The fall would have killed him, of course, but that’s a real stroke of luck! This did leave him floundering in the cold water like a braying walrus. The elves pulled him out and rushed him into the factory to thaw out his limbs. Santa seems a bit dazed, but was conscious enough to demand more alcohol. Bless him.
The moment Santa’s right leg was no longer a block of ice, he was thrashing it at everyone who came near him. This made administering alcohol somewhat difficult. “Calm down, dear!” I told him. “SHUT YOUR BLOODY FACE, YOU ODIOUS OLD HAG!!” was his response. I must say… he can be trying at times.
Okay, so he’s snuggled up by the fire now and is snoring like a fog horn. It’s a wonderful sight to see. This would make for a nice Christmas card, were it not for the scabs and blood over his face. And the major laceration across his forehead. And the fact he’s fouled himself. And… oh, he just vomited everywhere. Oopsie!
The nurse gave him a cortisone injection. Santa needs to sign some urgent papers, you see, as a metric tonne of “flour” (it’s actually cocaine – one of my husband’s vices!) has arrived. But that shot has really done wonders for him. Santa is standing up again and threatening the delivery driver with his beard!
Unfortunately, Santa took the delivery driver hostage and is holding him to ransom. Santa has his beard to the driver’s throat. The poor man seems more perplexed than anything (Santa, not the driver – the latter is clearly terrified).
Well, that was exhausting! So, the driver elbowed Santa in the gut and made a break for it. Rudolph, in a rare moment of clarity, gunned down the driver with an uzi in order to, “Purify the land of these steering wheel holding sycophant scum!” Santa and Rudolph then embraced in a manner that can only be described as illegal. We’re trying separate the two with a crowbar.
Dearie me, we’re still trying to separate those two. It also appears they’re frozen together, which doesn’t help.
There’s a severe snowstorm setting in and they’re still stuck. Santa is howling, so is Rudolph… I think a sense of exhaustion has made myself and the elves see the funny side. We’re all laughing!
So Markus, that’s our head elf, got the flamethrower out and that was enough for the separation. It did result in some serious third-degree burns, but otherwise they would have frozen to death.
Santa has smeared himself in antiseptic cream and seems to be on a high from his cortisone injection. He’s made his way to the Barbie doll production unit (his favourite part of our factory) to, “Obviate within the chemical understanding of fur.” I don’t think he’s too well. Better get the nurse!
The nurse is dead. Santa shot her with his shotgun. I don’t usually say things like this but… shit. I think he may need some sort of restraint here. We’re calling the riot squad!
Unfortunately, Santa installed an anti-riot squad unit in 2015 and, amazingly, this is its first run. And, amazingly, it’s amazing. The riot lot turned up in helicopters, a submarine, and a fighter jet.
And then Santa’s unit kicked off and now 70% of our “saviours” are dead. The survivors are crawling about screaming in agony. I approached one and he said, “LADY! Why aren’t these bits attached to the other bits?!?!” And I said, “Young man, you still have one spare arm. Stop whining.” Then I went inside to make some more mince pies.
Santa is running riot in the factory firing his shotgun at anyone he deems “NOT SANTA WORTHY!” Markus arrived in my kitchen to discuss his antics. He wishes to file an employment tribunal.
Sometimes a lady has to protect her husband. Markus won’t claim any sort of tribunal. Especially not after I jammed an egg whisk into his face and whisked really, really hard. “What the ****?!” He yelled. “I’ve absolutely had enough of this ****! I quit!”
I’ve got Rudolph to get Markus to stay. So this caused a bit of a kerfuffle. Rudolph’s eyes are so bloodshot it’s like he’s… he’s not Rudolph. Markus eventually gave up and began weeping hysterically. Rudolph kicked him in the groin and roared, “SHUT YOUR FACE, YOU BLOODY SNOWFL… FL… fll… *vomits copiously*” He really needs to lay off the stuff.
Santa has just detonated 300 lbs of TNT over on the far side of the factory, right next to the plastic spaghetti bolognese R&D department.
Santa just detonated 100 lbs of semtex inside the semtex R&D department, which has caused a slightly bigger explosion. I think the words “total chaos”, “anarchy”, and “wild abandon” summarise the scenes I’m seeing. Many elves are on fire. But my mince pies are in the oven. I really should take care of them.
Bloody hell fire! My mince pies are ruined!
I’m cradling my mince pies in mine arms. Such a tragedy like this is only seen once a millenia.
Rudolph, dribbling noticeably, has just told me Santa is sprinting “stark bollock naked” across the North Pole to “get a litre of Coca-Cola from the local shop.” There isn’t a local shop! Good gracious, I hope he doesn’t catch a cold!
Luckily, Santa fell into the same ice patch he’d created earlier after falling off the factory roof! So he didn’t get far. But he has hypothermia again. And, potentially, rabies… he’s frothing at the mouth. Did Rudolph give him that?!
I’ve cornered that bastard Rudolph with Santa’s flamethrower. I want answers!
In no uncertain terms, Rudolph told me to, “Go and **** off you ****ing stupid ***** because ****ing **** is ****ing beyond **** **** ******* ***** it.” Huh. When a reindeer puts it like that, you have to pay attention.
Santa, via megaphone as he swoops about the factory in his private helicopter, has told us he is “sleepy”. This is great news!
To the backdrop of half the factory burning, and the roars of agony from poor unfortunates, Santa crash landed the helicopter into the shed R&D department. Exhausted, he plopped out of the cockpit onto the floor snoring uproariously.
Markus was there with an axe ready to hack his brains out, but Rudolph gunned him down with his uzi before he could get any further. Always protect your family. Always.
Dearie me! What a day. I’m going to bed now. That was a more tiring one and, I suppose, with Christmas on the horizon… one must ensure the kiddie winkles receive something other than blood splattered entrails. Rather.