You’ll know the drill by now, but contractually we have to run Father Christmas’ exclusive column. Even though it’s now more of a curse than a fillip. Urgh…
Relax and Settle Down
Due to the skyrocketing levels of stress I’ve been subjected to, Santa bought a sensory deprivation tank for chillaxing purposes. It was inserted into my quarters.
Unfortunately, Santa’s big bulbous beer belly prevented me from fitting into it. And I got stuck in the thing. I began bellowing furiously upon the realisation. I was like that for a good 10 minutes before assistance arrived to save my life.
A bunch of elves broke my door down and eventually eased me out using lots of lard, melting snow, and my shotgun as a wrench.
I plopped out backward and crushed three of them to death. Well, their fault for being there in the first place, the stupid dickheads.
I kicked the sensory deprivation tank with my right foot in a rage, breaking my lower extremity and inducing severe agony. There was more bellowing.
Well… this item is getting a 1/5 rating on Trustpilot, I assure the makers! “Relaxing and intoxicating”, the ad said. As a drinker that seemed ideal. And then this! THEN THIS!!
I had the product dragged outside and detonated. As debris rained down to the ground, a dozen more of my elves were slain. “Sensory deprivation”? My big fat hairy ass. I’ll stick with alcohol and insufferable bouts of haughty rage!
With the morale of my workforce obviously plunging, Mrs. Santa Claus suggested I throw in some perks to lighten the tone.
I researched some of the popular business choices online.
Mrs. Santa Claus also suggested I pay the elves a “liveable wage”. This is why dames belong in the kitchen, those stupid elf gits are privileged to work for me. There shouldn’t get ahead of themselves.
Anyway, I found some ideas and then put my stamp of genius innovation on proceedings:
- Free fruit on Fridays: In the nuclear power plant basement there’s a stash of tinned apricot I found near the meltdown zone. Tonnes of the stuff! It’s all highly radioactive, but should keep the elves happy. And I can turn the lights up bright to mask the glowing.
- An office pet: I’ve commanded Rudolph to spend more time hanging around the factory units. He can entertain the elves as they slave away by dancing provocatively, regailing stories about his drug-fuelled antics, and offering discounted heroin.
- Remote working: The elves all live in the factory so they already have this option. See? Santa is more progressive than the world thinks! I thought about reducing the daily 18 hour shifts down a bit, but that seems too lenient in the light of the aforementioned extravagance.
- Early finishes: By which I mean the elf is shot with my bazooka, thus ending their career with my exceptional organisation.
- Birthdays off: On a respective elf’s day of birth, they’re allowed to take 24 hours “off”. By which I mean they have to stand outside the factory in subzero temperatures. Otherwise they’d just be in the way.
- Sheds: A free shed for everyone!
- Second-degree bruns: A free third-degree burn for anyone with only an inferior second-degree one!
- A date with Santa: Every employee gets to meet with me and enjoy my amazing company, such as seeing me rinse my backside whilst stark bollock naked!
I showed these to Mrs. Santa Claus and she suggested they were all “tyrannical” and she burst into tears again.
She whimpered about me being a “monster” and how she can’t believe she’s “stuck” with me. What the hell is wrong with that stupid bitch?
She needs a holiday, so I booked her a flight to Skegness in England. It’s a nice holiday resort with plastic slides she can go down into the water. That’ll cheer her up!
To prove to my horrible bitch of a wife I’m not a “monster” I planned a romantic dinner before her fortnight long trip.
I do this treat once every other month, although the meals are often a bit hit and miss.
For this one, Friday night being the time I was aiming for, I was so hungover on the day I couldn’t walk. I just lay in bed retching and vomiting onto the floor by the bed.
Mrs. Santa Claus was not best impressed and spent her day tutting at me.
Around 6pm I was able to start walking again, accidentally treading in the puke as I alighted from the bed, so I walked stark bollock naked into the kitchen to begin cooking.
I’d asked our chef/nurse Doreen to help out. She became quite hysterical when she saw me, screaming and running out of the room like a wuss.
Because I felt like crap I immediately hit the absinthe. 90% proof, I was gulping it down as I tried to cook up the complex menu I had planned:
- Starter: Freshly baked croissants.
- Main course: Coq au vin (with extra vin, of course, and half a litre of rum).
- Dessert: Gateau St. Honoré.
I started with good intentions but by 8pm the croissants, which looked more like cow pats, caught fire and the whole kitchen went up due to the overabundance of rum in the vicinity.
My beard had dipped into it as well, so as the kitchen became a raging inferno my iconic face fluff went up like Krakatoa on crack.
As I sprinted bellowing, and naked, out of the factory entrance I threw myself face first into the snow. The flames doused, I could feel a slight stinging sensation. Should be okay, no permenant scarring!
I took a swig from the absinthe bottle I’d lugged out with me. Turning around I could see inside where Mrs. Santa Claus, Rudolph, and the elves ran around in a panic trying to get the whole thing put out.
Belching exuberantly, I could feel the chill of hypothermia setting in so waddled off into the nuclear power plant to warm up a bit. Highly radioactive corium sure takes the edge off frostbite!