As part of his marketing push at Christmas, Santa did a YouTube live stream event. And it didn’t go very well.
I took a day off last week and spent it visiting a local town near the factory. I was pretty drunk for most of the day so don’t remember much.
My new head elf, Susan, accompanied me to run errands and keep a report on my activity. This is, apparently, what I got up to:
- I assaulted the town mayor with my fists and blamed it on Susan. The mayor called me a “vile, disgraceful, lying individual.” So I assaulted him again until I ran out of breath and went into a pub to chain smoke cigars and drink beer.
- I found out smoking indoors is now banned in such establishments—they kicked me out of that pub! What’s the world coming to with all these nanny state, PC, snowflake lefties?!
- I stole a packet of bourbon biscuits from a shop. The proprietor insisted I pay for them, but I flipped him the bird and threatened to strip stark bollock naked unless he desist.
- I got frostbite on my chubby legs after stripping naked and walking home to my factory.
So it wasn’t the most enjoyable day off, but I did enjoy eating the bourbon biscuits to ease my raging hangover the following morning.
YouTube Santa Stream
Susan suggested I do one of these to show the world what goes on in my factory during the Christmas run. “For the kids, it’ll be joyous!” she chirped.
I must say, Susan’s optimism and positivity are really starting to piss me off.
But for now, she’ll have to do. And anyway, what happened during the ordeal will certainly put her off suggesting further initiatives.
Recently I hired a new handyman to work as a sort of plumber/electrician/janitor. This one is called Barry. He’s at least 10 stone overweight and doesn’t have a great turn of speed on him, but his heavy wheezing and overall ugliness makes me feel like the dominant male around the factory.
Anyway, I got him to setup the YouTube live stream. He couldn’t figure it out, but once Susan showed him the ropes he got the camera and lumbered about filming everyone.
One of the first things he did was head into my quarters. I was unconscious on the floor, naked, and covered in vomit.
With 13 million viewers for this hotly anticipated Santa Stream, it wasn’t the best of starts. Many families were tuning in to get the jolly lowdown, not see my enormous bulbous beer belly stained with puke.
Barry was able to rouse me by pouring a bucket of water over my head. Well, he thought it was water. Myself and Rudolph often use that bucket as a toilet if we’re feeling too lazy to walk into the bathroom.
So, yes, I got covered in effluence. And that made me retch and puke some more.
Apparently, this sent out a very bad impression to the world. Especially as, before the bucket stuff, I was snoring uproariously (naked) and talking in my sleep about why women belong in the kitchen. Next thing I’m vomiting all over the place and dropping major f bombs.
I bellowed at Barry, “Piss off and come back later, you oaf!” He duly left my quarters and went into the hallway, where a stack of elf corpses was still waiting to be cleared away—evidently rotting, the lot of it.
To lighten the tone, Barry then toured around my factory and filmed the scenes of death, destruction, nuclear waste, and highly stressed and malnourished elves running about.
He then went into the nuclear power plant that’s fuelling the factory to make all your nice toys this year, but he got a lethal dose of radiation and collapsed on the floor.
Unfortunately, his camera fell at an angle pointing back at his pulsating fat face. All whilst his head swelled up. Then his skin started peeling off his face and he gurgled, “Tell Bernadette I hate… *herrruuuuughhhhhhhhhhh*”
Apparently, that’s his wife. They were married for 30 years. And he “absolutely hated her” for all of those three decades. You can’t beat true love.
Anyway, he’s still there in the reactor with that camera pointing at his face. I’ve said enough is enough (to the press), no one can go in there to retrieve the thing! It’s too dangerous!!
Not least until the media backlash blows over, anyway, then I’ll get one of my elves down there. I’m not really too arsed about losing a couple more of the diminutive dickheads.
Until then, unfortunately, the live Santa Stream is an ongoing live recording of that bloke’s fat, bloated body.
This has done the Father Christmas public image no favours in the slightest.
Even trying to blame all of this on my head elf, Susan, wasn’t enough to quell the fury that followed the live stream.
The media is on my case. The IAEA, politicians, governments, and the general public are on my case. And even my wife, Mrs. Santa Claus, chastised me for the “low quality” and “disturbing” nature of the live stream. I told her to, “Shut up and piss off!” Cow.
To try and establish back my image as a jolly fat man who loves everyone, I’ve promised to include a free cake to every family during my Christmas Eve marathon.
Some people seem happy with that. However, tabloid newspapers like The Daily Disaster accused Santa of trying to airbrush over tragedies with confectionary goods.
Meanwhile, the UN is on my case again—I’m offering a £3 million bribe to turn a blind eye, but they insist they have to be proactive about, “colossal human rights breaches.” Stupid wankers.
Of course, I’m quite used to dealing with such nonsense. The media hassles me regularly—I typically stonewall the pathetic hacks. Or threaten them with blackmail.
I have an open policy about openly firing at the paparazzi with a shotgun or bazooka.
But thanks to Susan, the world got a “no holds barred” look into the world of Santa Claus. The really damaging stuff, such as my occasional human rights breach.
This morning I received a wealth of furious emails from angry parents to my reception and marketing department. Many stupid mummies and daddies accuse me of being a monster.
Many others suggest I’m a psychopath, or at the very least labouring under a narcissistic personality disorder.
Pffffffffffft. What do those sad sacks know? I’m rich. That’s all that matters. Being a total dickhead is fine when you’re rolling in the moolah, it means you’re successful.
However, a few emails from kids did pique my interest. This is one from Callum, age 6, who lives in Bolton of Greater Manchester:
“Dear Santy Claus. Why were there them all them rotting dead bodies in your Santy factory? Doesn’t Mrs. Santy Claus do cleaning? Also can I get a playstation fore for Christmas?”
That petulant little brat raises a good point! My wife really should put her backside into clearing up the mess I generate.
Well, she does her fair share. But often draws the line on corpses or severe injuries.
But I drunkenly demanded an improvement to things anyway. But it turns out Rudolph got her a book on feminism for Christmas. Just to spite me.
Now Mrs. Santa Claus keeps banging on about “gender equality”, the “patriarchy”, the “male gaze”, “toxic masculinity”, “androcentrism”, and “performativity”.
I’m not sure what most of that lot means, so whenever she pipes up I just tell her to cram a sock in it.