Another week, time for more Santa! Well, ready for more Santa? This week, he means some serious business. Oh dear.
Bellowing and Warnings
After last week’s nuclear mishap I got a slap on the wrist from the IAEA and UN. They’ve decontaminated my factory and fewer of us are now vomiting twice every minute. This is good news for productivity levels.
Meanwhile, my wife returned from jail today. Well, I thought it was today. It turned out it was two days ago, but a persistent drinking blackout means it feels like she only returned a few hours back.
I was upsetting her by bellowing “What the bloody hell are you doing back here, you psychotic bitch!?” whenever I saw her.
Anyway, I’m more lucid now. But she maintains the slap she gave me was warranted. I’ve refused to speak to her until she admits her irrationality. Nothing like the silent treatment, eh?
A leading delegate from the UN arrived via helicopter this morning in an attempt to hold “peace talks” with me. I’m getting sick and tired of having to deal with those tossers.
It turns out yesterday I drunkenly declared war on Europe and the UN. Apparently I announced this in a state of extreme inebriation on a live YouTube stream and sent Rudolph out to invade England. I have no memory of any of this.
Rudolph and the other reindeer got as far as Rochdale in Lancashire then turned back. He said it was, “Too crap to bother invading.”
Just as the delegate’s helicopter landed I burst out of the factory gates firing my shotgun wildly into the air. The delegate immediately turned to run in sheer terror, but he slipped on the snow and plunged off a nearby precipice into the freezing waters of the Arctic Ocean.
They always die when that happens, so I didn’t bother checking up on him. But I continued rushing the helicopter in a narcissistic, hungover rage.
The pilot, in a panic, lost control in his unsteady takeoff and also plunged into the Arctic Ocean.
For dramatic effect, I carried on running forward firing my shotgun wildly into the air. Then I started running out of breath, as Santa is a bit unfit. Panting heavily and with sweat pouring off me, I collapsed in a heap on the snow.
The elves came and grabbed me by my feet, dragging me back to the factory whilst I roared obscenities at them.
Due to the war effort, I’ve decided to divert many resources away from making Christmas toys. Instead, I’ve been arming up my elves with guns and tanks as my plan is to steam across the North Pole and plow into England.
I’m determined to take Lancashire. No man shall stop me! It reminds me of that great Church Hill quote, “We shall fight them bitches.” Damn straight, sir!
To bolster my army (and employee retention rate) I was able to hire 500 new elves in a concerted recruitment and kidnapping strategy.
My head elf, Vincent, is well again after I shattered his legs in a bone-crunching accident. So he’s back in charge of that lot and hobbles about via the use of a cane.
Unfortunately, 100 were killed upon arrival when I fired my bazooka (not a euphemism) at them. I was going through DTs at the time and believed the new recruits to be an army of poisonous beetles.
The snow was splattered with blood and brain matter, which I demanded be left out there. It looks pretty against the backdrop of the normal dreary white of the North Pole.
Upon arrival, the second wave of recruits saw the mess, panicked, and fled into the nuclear power plant to hide. Radiation levels are still through the roof, so at least another 100 were wiped out by that.
The next arrivals were greeted with the sight of several dozen nuclear survivors crawling around in the snow irradiated, gurgling, and shedding body parts.
That caused another wave of panic, with 100 of the stupid little gits rushing off the edge of the icy precipice nearby and froze to death in the Arctic Ocean.
Just… goddamnit! What in the name of Santa’s big beer belly does a successful businessman like me have to do to get some reliable employees!?
The others were pretty horrified by these incidents. I was eager to ensure they were alive for at least the next 24 hours, so gave an impromptu induction out on the icy wasteland to the 200 new recruits.
I bellowed at them to shut up and do their jobs, whilst standing amongst the death, destruction, and brain matter. They were all clearly mortified. It was hilarious.
Mrs. Santa Claus took me to one side in the evening and told me everyone is getting “sick and tired” of my relentless habit of bellowing.
I was aghast! I shout every now and then, but really? Enough to complain? These goddamn snowflakes!
Naturally, my immediate reaction was to begin bellowing angrily at her. At that point Rudolph burst into our quarters (he’d clearly been listening in outside), to state he was also fed up with the state of affairs.
In a drunken rage, I seized hold of his antlers and began wrestling with him. I was stark bollock naked at the time and began to realise my “tackle” was in danger of being pulverised. Thusly, my bellowing was exacerbated.
Due to the unusual amount of bellowing occurring, many of my employees gathered outside my quarters to try and understand what was going on.
And that’s all I remember, as I then had another blackout. Nothing out of the ordinary there, it happens most nights.
I came to this morning naked in bed with Rudolph and Mrs. Santa Claus. Jesus (no, he wasn’t there too, I’m cursing), what the hell?
I’ve decided to install CCTV cameras around the premises. Then I can get a good idea about what I get up to 24/7. So I’ll report back on that next week, along with the war stuff.