Santa Column: Bone-Crunching Accidents & Online Dating

Winter Wonderlad
Ahhhh, bliss.

It’s the final Christmas push and Santa is working overtime to get all of your lovely presents ready! Unfortunately, some of his employees keep getting themselves hurt.

Don’t worry. Father Christmas is a most compassionate man indeed and cares deeply for each and every employee.

Accidents at Work

Christ! Because so many of my idiotic staff keep injuring themselves, I asked them all (at gunpoint, obviously) to sign legal waivers.

This means, in the event of a brain splattering mishap, I (the employer) don’t have to deal with any serious legal consequences.

Some say I should grieve for the loss of an employee. I say, they give me enough grief as it is!

I pay their bloody poverty wages and they should feel privileged to work for me. If that means laying their life on the line to get this year’s shipment of Barbie dolls done, then so be it!

Anyway, I’m keeping a record of the many accidents. For posterity. Mainly because I like reading through the list when drunk and laughing my ass off.

Stupid incompetent employees. They could never hope to match my superiorty, which is why I pay myself 1,556 times what a mere one of them earns in a year!

Here are some of he finest injuries in the factory so far:

  • Bernard: Got his stupid elf head jammed into the plastic vomit making machine.
  • Bernard: Due to mild concussion, attempted to eat plastic vomit in confusion and almost choked to death.
  • Bernard: Saved by Heimlich maneuver, but was run over by a forklift driven by a drunken Santa the following day.
  • Bernard: Santa fell out of the forklift and landed on Bernard’s prone body, accidentally crushing his arms and breaking them.
  • Bernard: Doreen the factory nurse injected Bernard with chlorine by mistake, rather than morphine. This led to much frothing at the mouth and puking—I made him mop that up later. No need for such putrid behaviour on my watch!
  • Bernard: Punched in the face by an outraged Santa after the elf handed in his resignation letter. I don’t hire quitters! I hire non-quitters! Death is the only escape from my business.
  • Bernard: Chased about the factory by a heroin crazed Rudolph and bitten on the arms, leg, and nose, as well as having an antler jammed up his backside.
  • Bernard: Attempting to flee the factory, he got stuck in a snowstorm and had to crawl back with his legs frozen solid. Was thawed out later next to a pile of nuclear waste from our power plant.
  • Bernard: Suffering from acute radiation sickness, spent 48 hours vomiting and trying to glue his skin back onto his body.
  • Bernard: Accidentally injected with chlorine again by Doreen. We really shouldn’t keep the stock next to the morphine supplies.
  • Bernard: Pleaded with Santa to either have a mercy killing or be fired with immediate effect. I heartily whacked him across his back in moral support, dislocating his shoulderblades.

There are, of course, other employees as well as Bernard. But he’s been “in the wars” a tad this month compared to the rest.

I must say, all these incidents will have to come out of his wage package. He’s been far from productive and I think it’s about time I demote him.

We need someone to clear the cesspit outside the factory (my employees’ toilet).

The last elf doing that slipped and fell in and hasn’t regained consciousness since October. I presume he’s hibernating.

Santa is Dating

Oh yes, my bitch of a wife is still intent on divorcing me. Cow! I’ve not seen her in a month now.

I’ve run out of clean underpants so have had to return to some of the least soiled ones I found from the mound of them on my bedroom floor.

The foul stench and squelchy feeling disappears a bit after I’ve got my trousers on. Plus, once I’m pretty drunk I hardly notice anymore. Further proving my stance about dames is correct—they’re superfluous.

So I hit the dating scene with a vengeance. I have an ego to scratch, so expected the top totty to be throwing themselves at me. Here’s my profile picture.

Santa Claus looking very happy but belching

Even I think I look hot. This is what I put on my dating profile:

"Smoking hot handsome stuff with a beer belly to make you go gooey at the knees seeks feeble-minded dunce to clean gunk out of soiled underpants. 

- Pros: Rich, successful, world-famous. 
- Cons: Dribbles when drunk, prone to occasional psychotic outbursts, early morning hangover breath capable of flooring a moose.

No ugly fat chicks, please. Regards, Santa."

I started messaging the dames. Any geezer knows the drill. Adding in the usual dick pics, quotes from Shakespeare for sophistication points, and making the odd gratuitous and leering sexual remark.

So far I’ve come up against a tidal wave of feministic ire. I’m a “pig” and “out of touch with modern sensibilities”. What the hell are they talking about?

In retaliaton I do my usual temper tantrum stuff. Responding with death threats and reminders of who I am—Father Christmas, for crying out loud!

Even boasting about my wealth, acres of land, and bulging beer belly did little to win any of the tedious SJWs over.

Then I came across my wife’s profile. Bitch! I sent her the customary death threat, called her a “stupid wench”, and blocked her. That’ll teach the woman!

Anyway, eventually this woman called “SweetToothLOL” responded favourably to my advances. She uses “lol” a lot, though. That really pissed me off, so I bellowed at her to shut up (in typing, but I was roaring at my computer screen as well).

Well, she blocked me. And I’ve been reported to the site admins and blocked from that online dating service.

I like to think it’s because I’m too hot to handle. I’ll try out the notorious Beautiful People dating app, that bans ugly people outright.

As a reminder, I must surround myself with my superior, beautiful, rich people. Everyone else is just shit.

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