Santa Column: The War Effort and Opinions on Marmalade

Santa Claus is drunk
“I am so wasted!”

Christmas is but once a year. And the father of it all is, once again, really screwing up the build-up. Oh well. Maybe don’t hold out for that Buzz Lightyear toy you requested, eh?

CCTV

Due to my consistent blackouts, I set up 300 CCTV cameras around the factory to get a good understanding of what I get up to during my drunken blackout hours.

After 48 hours of recording, I ordered the elves to destroy all 300 CCTV cameras. I joined in by blasting them down with my shotgun (not a euphemism).

There are things… the human eye should not see. The sight of a wasted and stark bollock naked Santa bludgeoning his beer belly with radioactive elf corpses is only going to be bad for my public image.

Based off several recordings, I went storming into our nuclear power plant (drunk, of course), that’s still in operation but functioning off a skeleton crew due to insanely dangerous radiation levels.

Then I seized the corpses and I headed out into the snow outside the factory, got naked, and whacked the bodies against my enormous gut.

I’m not sure why I did that. I asked Mrs. Santa Claus (my wife) how long that’s been going on for. She went very pale and left the room. Stupid bitch.

The War Effort

Apparently I’m at war with Europe and the UN still. I tried to wave it off to the international press, but then Rudolph called me a “chicken” and so I punched the stupid bastard on his stupid bastard red nose.

That ended in another one of our brawls and he’s now refusing to speak to me.

Santa is no chicken! As such, I planned to send my other reindeer off with a 10 tonne vat of radioactive waste.

The plan was to tip that lot over Bolton of Greater Manchester, thusly initiating global warfare (or at least fisticuffs in the North West of England).

The reindeer got it all loaded into Santa’s sleigh, but the waste melted through the metal container, then onto the sleigh, and then liquefied the ground surrounding my sleigh (in factory unit two), which then collapsed down onto the new cesspit we have, and that caused one hellish nightmare that I couldn’t be bothered dealing with.

To the sounds of high-pitched screams of terror and retches of disgust, I retired to my quarters to get drunk.

Marmalade

In a drunken blackout rage, I apparently typed out in much fury a 10,000 word essay on why I think marmalade is “a disgrace to humanity.”

Strong words, you may think. Why have such hate toward a fruit preserve?

Well, even I’m not sure. But in the essay I rant quite wildly about the foodstuff being rubbish, although much of the 10,000 words consists of obscenities. For instance, I use “bastard” 765 times (I made my head elf, Vincent, count them all).

Some UN delegates arrived to hold peace talks in the afternoon. Hungover beyond walking abilities, I got Rudolph (although he’s still not talking to me) to drag me out into one of our meeting rooms.

The room has a load of rotting elf corpses piled up in one corner. Radioactive, of course, but I got Vincent to drape a nice throw over that lot. Out of sight, out of mind! I then belched exuberantly to lighten the tone.

The UN guys talked for about 30 minutes straight about “peace”. During which time I sat their belching and flatulating whilst picking my nose.

Once they’d finished with their prolixity, I simply handed them my marmalade diatribe and got Rudolph to drag me out of the room.

The UN delegates then went to update the world’s press about why I hate marmalade. On TV, they even quoted, verbatim, a small segment from my essay.

"The total bastard problem with bastard marmalade is that BASTARD stuff is bloody disgusting and not as good as bastarding jam! Marmalade is ORANGE. What good ever came from that bastard colour!? Nothing! Not even Holland would say that bastard marmalade is any bloody good! It's a bastard!"

Does that mean I’m published!? I’m not sure, but I’m impressed by my eloquence at times, I really am.

Christmas Time

Due to being so hungover all the time (and the war effort etc.), the push for toy making is so seriously behind schedule I’m using black market tactics to get back on track.

More on that another time, but one of my other preferred tactics is getting the elves to scoop radioactive sludge out of the nuclear reactor and package that as the likes of:

  • Glow in the dark playdo.
  • Lava lamps without the lamp.
  • Radioactive waste (sometimes you just have to be honest).

I offered some to Mrs. Santa Claus as an apology present for some of my behaviour recently. As we dined one night, I presented it to her as a “glow in the dark dessert”.

She immediately turned bright red (probably through delight), vomited (I wasn’t expecting that bit), and keeled over.

I shrugged my shoulders and walked off to find Rudolph. I wanted to settle my issues with him, too, seeing as he was being such an immature and petulant goddamn SOB!

So I offered him the dessert my wife didn’t want and all his fur dropped out along with his antlers. I picked one up and offered to put it back on for him but he just kept wheezing.

Jesus Christ, why is everyone I know such a pathetic snowflake?! It’s only highly radioactive material! To vent my anger I went and found my head elf, Vincent, and punched him in the face.

He’s been lying on the floor not moving ever since. Goddamn, it’s impossible to get the staff these days!

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