Okay, so Santa Claus drunkenly ordered in over 750 bulldozers in last week’s exclusive column. What’s he going to do with that lot? Let’s find out!
Just when you thought it was safe to go back into Christmas, I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like, “I need 750 bulldozers, stat!”
Well, they all turned up this morning. Apparently I demanded expedience and forked out an extra million to ensure they got here ASAP.
The result is 750 military helicopters flew the bulldozers in this morning. I was hungover to crap. And my word did I lose my crap upon seeing those things all blasting in at speed.
I rushed out of the factory with my megaphone to roar at them, “Piss off, you bastards!” But they just kept on coming. It’s almost like they couldn’t hear me or something.
Wave after wave of helicopters swooping in and dumping the bulldozers into the ground. I got my head elf, Vincent, to go and get a forklift truck to stack them on top of each other. They take up a lot of room and it seemed like a good idea.
As he did that, the helicopter pilots clearly agreed with my excellent idea and started stacking them up in a, sort of, bulldozer eiffel tower.
Now when you’ve got over 450 of them things tottering away in mid-air, it’s surprising what a strong gust of wind can do.
Sure enough, the lot came crashing down onto unit one of my factory. The destruction was remarkable, with at least 100 of my elves obliterated on the spot.
Vincent got out of his forklift and starred openmouthed at the mayhem. That really enraged me! In a crisis like that and he froze. I rushed at him to teach the little bastard a lesson!
As I roared obscenities and throttled Vincent by the neck, my wife chastised me and suggested I should take it as a life lesson to drink less.
I took a swing at her head with one of my chubby fists, instead clobbering Rudolph – standing beside her – around the antlers.
Furious, he snarled and lunged teeth snapping for my throat. He’s done that many times and it’s always the same outcome – he bounces off my enormous gut and is left sprawling around on the floor. Stupid git.
After belabouring my useless employees for a good 10 minutes, I then went and did what I do best: hid in my room and drank heavily whilst everyone else took care of the bedlam.
Shirking my responsibilities is one of the best things about being a boss. If anyone complains, I fire them.
This was a real crisis and I genuinely did (sort of) intend to go back out after half an hour to clear up the rubble (i.e. bellow at everyone for being incompetent whilst swigging from a gin bottle).
But I overdid it in my room, blacked out, and then passed out. I came to 12 hours later with my right leg jammed down the toilet u-bend in my bathroom.
I have hazy memories of trying to re-enact the whole “When Santa got stuck up the chimney” song. The event is genuine, as in 1878 I got stuck in a chimney in a Bolton home of Greater Manchester.
After screaming sweet bloody murder for an hour, I was freed be some tramps.
Anyway, cut to 2019 and I was stuck again. But in a toilet. Worse still, it’s evident I went to the toilet before jamming my leg down there. So the smell was pretty bad. Perhaps I was trying to use my leg as a plunger.
Whatever, I was fortunate my shotgun was next to me. As no one was responding to my bellowing, I began firing at the bathroom wall. I didn’t stop firing (30 minutes in total) until I’d blown a gap through to the hallway next to my quarters.
Shortly after, one of my elves scurried by and I was able to holler at him for assistance. My saviour! He clambered through the gap in the wall and got into the bathroom. At that point he turned pale and looked a bit disgusted.
Other than the smell, I was also stark bollock naked so I guess it was a bit embarrassing for him to be in the company of such a fine specimen of masculine perfection.
After puking on the floor, he ran off to get help. 10 minutes later Rudolph smashed my bedroom door down with his hoofs and the other reindeer stomped the crap out of the toilet, freeing my swollen lower extremity.
With their help, I propped myself up with my shotgun and limped into my bedroom to down half a bottle of brandy.
This rescue operation diverted essential aid away from those affected in the bulldozer disaster, but there you go. That’s business for you, the boss always comes first. We’re just superior like that.
I took the rest of the day off to recuperate from my ordeal. But I got wasted again in the evening and apparently limped about naked amongst the rubble of the disaster whilst bellowing about the dangers of socialism.
I was treading all over the injured trapped amongst the rubble. This morning my wife told me that with tears in her eyes, but I was just laughing hysterically. I mean, come on. It’s funny!
But Mrs. Santa Claus did something… I’m still appalled this could ever happen on my watch. She smacked me. With her hand, she smacked me across the cheek! Never in my life… a dame must know her place!
I was stark bollock naked at the time in our kitchen, but the smack stunned me. That’s physical assault! I’m now seeking legal assistance to sue my wife. You’ll find out how that goes next time.