Christmas is a few days away, so Santa is ramping up the toy making push. He’s also, sadly, got a few self-inflicted ailments to manage as he goes about it all.
Christmas comes but once a year… and thank bloody Christ for that! Because the pandemonium of the 2019 push is full-on.
Many of my elf employees this week, due to poor nutrition, began labouring under the effects of scurvy.
As they staggered about begging me for oranges, I rushed in an emergency assortment of pork pies from Bolton of Greater Manchester.
Although they gorged on the pastry delights, the scurvy didn’t go away. So I gave them all a shot of brandy and then began thrashing them with my belt—no one slacks off at this time of year! No one!!
As my scurvy-stricken workforce staggered about generating over a million toys an hour, myself and the reindeer stalked about keeping an eye on them.
The merest hint of fatigue and it was belt time from me, whilst the reindeer used their antlers to jab at insubordinate elves.
At one point, whilst I thrashed persistent troublemaker Bernard mercilessly and bellowed obscenities, I heard a familiar and kindly voice behind me. “Snuggums?” I turned and stood in shock. Did my bloodshot and hungover eyes deceive me? No!
Belching exuberantly, I dropped the belt—Mrs. Santa Claus. My bitch wife!
I rushed at her and we embraced, dropping to the floor in amongst the elves rushing around working. As we began copulating vociferously, my head elf, Susan, approached nervously with news: “Your ‘bitch wife’ has arrived at reception, sire.”
The scurvy was affecting Susan’s vision. It was blatantly obvious I was aware of the return of my bitch wife (I’ve been commanding my employees to refer to my bitch wife as my “bitch wife”).
Later that day, Susan accidentally clobbered her head against an anvil I was swinging drunkenly about my person. Clumsy elf woman. She better up her game or she’ll be demoted.
Anyway, with my bitch wife’s return the divorce is off. I guess I’ll just have to return to going “I love you, darling!” for a while.
After that I can let the narcissistic mask drop and go about calling her “Oi, you!” again. Equilibrium is restored. And it is a wonderful thing.
But the really great news is she’ll be able to clean my disgusting old underpants! So much gunk has built up in them I’d taken to wearing her leftover underwear.
All of her stuff is also now seriously soiled. What? I can sense your sneering causticity. Hey, Santa is a real man.
When you have a manly diet like mine, dames must take privilege in the consequences.
Pimp My Gout
The hypochondriac elves may be complaining about scurvy, severe fatigue, and chronic depression, but they know nothing of my incomparable suffering.
I have severe gout in my ankles due to my booze and burger heavy diet.
I requisitioned a car cabin mobility scooter. Those ones that cost $12,000. Susan, my head elf, took the order and jotted down my “pimping it up” demands:
- Long-range lithium battery upgrade of $2,000.
- Sports seat at an extra $1,000.
- Air conditioning of an extra $500.
- Bull bars on the front to ram idle elves out of the way (extra $500).
- Flashing safety beacon on roof (additional $300).
- Tanoy system so I can bellow obscenities (i.e. encouragement) at my freeloading employees (extra $200).
- External bazooka holder for $100.
- Wailing siren at double the volume—$600 extra.
Basically, this thing is costing $20,000. But as a successful business owner, I demand priorities around my factory.
Susan, in a state of scurvy-driven irrationality, suggested I remove several pimped up features to provide a small pay rise for my 50 surviving elves.
The only reason I didn’t rugby tackle her on the spot was due to severe gout hindering my movement. I took to bellowing belittling remarks at her instead.
But, rest assured, once that car cabin mobility scooter arrives I’ll be running that insubordinate wench over.
Why? Because it’s basic economics. All of the wealth must be directed towards me. This is because I’m superior to everyone else.
I continued writing my (this) column the following day. With the arrival of the car cabin mobility scooter there was an exciting development to cover, rather than the mundane stuff I normally get up to.
The contraption was especially flown in via helicopter via express delivery, adding an extra $10,000 to the fee (refer to my earlier statements about my importance to justify this pointless expense).
With great delight (partly because I was drunk), I took the contraption for a spin.
That turned into a day-long joy ride with my beloved vehicle, which I lovingly dubbed Gertrude.
My wife was clearly jealous/irritated/irradiated (there’s still a lot of radiation in the air from my nuclear power plant) about my new mobility scooter obsession.
She needs to focus on the important task at hand—cleaning the gunk from all 32 pairs of my Y-fronts.
Meanwhile, as I blasted down corridors and mowed down all before me, by the end of that day we were down to 40 elves. The other 10 were dead and flattened.
I only found out the above such development this morning when, too hungover and gout-ridden to walk, I demanded my wife fetch Gertrude.
With little memory of around 10pm onward, it was with great surprise I found that I’d ram-raided Gertrude into the Barbie doll production centre in order to, and this is what I said verbatim, “Get off with the hot babes!”
Mrs. Santa Claus was thoroughly unimpressed by this development and also scolded me for demolishing the $20,000+ car cabin mobility scooter within 12 hours of ownership.
I told her to, “Piss off and mind your own goddamn business! Those underpants aren’t going to clean themselves, you know?!”
Upon hearing Gertrude is beyond repair I rolled out of bed (stark bollock naked, of course), puked onto the floor, and began crying hysterically. My soulmate…my love… gone.
Bellowing for Susan to enter my quarters, there was a delay and then, very pale and wonky looking, she staggered in wheezing.
I pointed at the bottle of 90% absinthe five feet from me on the floor. She hobbled over, painstakingly bent to pick it up, and brought it to me.
“What the bloody hell is wrong with you, woman!?” I roared. “Sire,” She whimpered, “We need some vitamin C! Please… help us!”
Aghast at such impertinence, in a haughty rage I bellowed, “Fuck your oranges!” Swigging from the absinthe bottle, for the rest of the day I gave everyone the silent treatment.
As I did so, I went to order another car cabin mobility scooter online.
This one shall be dubbed Gertrude Jnr. in loving memory of Gertrude—the greatest mobility scooter there… (sorry, just need to itch my hairy backside)… was.