Exclusive Santa Column: Ho, Ho, Ho! Lots of Snow & Swearing!

Let it snow!
Don’t let it snow.

When it hits Christmas, God’s dandruff lands and causes a ruckus. As Santa found out this week, when relentless snowstorms curtailed his Christmas production rates. Bah! Humbug!


Jesus wept has it snowed a lot lately! The entirely factory is blanketed in snow. The snowstorm is so snowy the factory is engulfed in the stuff and we’re trapped inside. Help! HELP!!

Urgh… it’s no use. No one can hear us. It’s desperate times, so I’ve hit the bottle with a vengeance and am in a constant drunken haze.

My elves are suggesting I phone the outside world for emergency assistance, but I’ve told them the phonelines are down.

I don’t know whether that’s true or not, it’s just I’m too inebriated most of the time to know.

I pick my smartphone up and can’t tell what’s the phoning bit, what’s an app, and where I’ve stored my many, many dick pics.

I’m the only one who has a phone, of course, I don’t allow my employees to have them. They’re not procrastinating on the bloody things when work’s to be done! I’m not paying them a poverty wage for them to mock Santa!

Flamethrowers to the Rescue?

Rudolph suggested we flamethrower our way out of the factory. I was all up for trying that—any excuse to crank that mother out!

So with several elves and Rulolph, we intrepidly headed out into the snow blanket—me roaring with laughter as I blasted our way to safety.

We got a half mile or so out when the snow tunnel we’d created collapsed under the weight of the snow above. All of a sudden we were all trapped there under the crushing weight of snow!

This was odd. I felt a bit, what you might call lazy ass Millennials, as a “snowflake”. As in, scared. Erm… I mustn’t admit that to anyone ever.

Anyway, due to my alcohol intake my body temperature was higher than the others. And once I fouled myself (not due to fear, of course) a pocket of snow melted around us.

I yanked my trusty flamethrower (not a euphemism) and blasted to my right. We were free! Air! Free space! Rudolph pulled himself free—the elves were all dead. We had a good laugh about that. Stupid feeble things.

Anyway, we had no idea which direction to head. But as we flamed our way in a random direction by sheer luck we took the same route and got back to the factory. We collpased through the gates feeling like goddamn heroes.

“Get me drink!” I bellowed at my elves. They rushed off to get me a litre bottle of whiskey to chug on.

What an ordeal. Since then we’ve decided to wait until the snowstorms have ended. There’s enough alcohol to keep me going for a decent amount of time.

Otherwise I’m not fussed about what happens to the others. The more deaths, the less I lose from my monthly budget to my inferiors.

The Wife

Oh yeah, to add to the issues my wife, Mrs. Santa Claus, is divorcing me. Bitch! But because of all this snow my search and rescue plans to find her last week failed. Bastard!

She’s run off and taken all her things. Then today a lawyer called me with an official file for divorce. Cow!

This is unacceptable. Nobody divorces ME, the great Father Christmas, for I am undivorceable!

I seethed with rage over this for much time, stalking about my factory punching anything in sight (including myself whenever I wandered by my reflection).

Eventually, and quite drunk, I went and drunkly started another snow tunnel with my bare hands and legs. I got naked, of course, and clawed and punched at the snow encasing the factory.

Rudolph filmed some of this on my smartphone “for posterity”, as he put it. Watching it back later I must say even I thought my manic behaviour a bit odd.

Me roaring away, “Wife! I love you! Die, you bitch! Die!!” Thrashing away at the snow with my chubby arms and legs. Anyway, it was all for a good purpose. I need my wife to clear the gunk out of my underpants, that’s how much I value her in my life.

Naturally, I soon collapsed due to hypothermia. My head elf, Susan, and Rudolph dragged me inside and I’m back in the medical unit again.

The nurse, Doreen, said my right leg needs amputating. I was lying, drunk, on a medical room examination couch when she told me that. I took a swing at her, missed, and fell onto the floor.

My right leg, a bit weird due to the frostbite, sort of went at a weird angle and was sticking up in the air like the Eiffel Tower. “What the fuck is it doing!?” I bellowed.

Anyway, they sedated me and, as it turns out, with skin grafts from my enormous bulbous beer belly I’ll be able to keep the leg. Phew!

See, this is just one of the many benefits of a lifetime of extreme intoxication and overindulgence.

Thanks to my salubrious lifestyle choices, I have kept a leg I would have otherwise lost.


Dispense with some gibberish!

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