Welcome! Santa was a bit slow getting his Christmas update to us this week. Possibly because he’s a bit slow… mentally.
Using the Toilet & Christmas
It started with a piss. A long one. Like 30 seconds, the type of toilet session I don’t enjoy. But boast about anyway.
Because the world SHOULD be impressed by me. “Don’t be so smug!” Said my bitch wife. “I SHOULD, I’m SUCCESSFUL!” I roared back at her.
Then I went to take a dump and I’m not sure if I was smug or not. Certainly I was impressed by what I did. I posted the image on my social media account and then the tabloids went nuts. Look at these headlines!
- Santa loses his shit
- Santa’s shitless crap
- Santa in crazed love orgy with turds
- Turd-happy Santa shits himself
- England in Brexit turmoil while Father Christmas ruminates on bowel movements [from a broadsheet, for balance]
The main issue I have is with the toilet focus. I asked my head elf, Markus, what my mean average toilet time is. He didn’t respond. He’s very pale. He may have scurvy.
And that’s why I punched him in the face. Insubordination is unacceptable!
Santa’s New Office
I got my new office set up (setup?) with a new office vibe. To set the right impression, I nailed a blood-splattered elf head to my door.
My bitch wife (Mrs. Santa Claus) objected to this as “horrifying” and I really have no idea what happened after that. Possibly because I began drinking gin. All I know is the impaled skull was gone by the next morning.
This infuriated me. So I decided to nail a picture of Elvis onto the door. Now everyone seems to think I love Elvis, even though I can’t stand the fuckwod.
My wife turned up the next day with Elvis’ Greatest Hits CD and I’ve been goddamn listening to goddamn Blue Suede Shoes for 24 hours straight!
“Blue Suede Shoes?! Blue Suede shit!” I bellowed in a particularly witty moment at 4 am whilst in a drunken rampage.
It’s one of those, “Let’s check out the CCTV! Because I can’t remember a thing!” kind of things, but I tore through my factory in a skimpy bikini number whilst slobbering and chanting Satanic verses.
The next day, while so hungover I couldn’t help but vomit every 30 minutes, I rearranged my swanky new office.
I decided to move my collection of volatile pornography from my desk into the desk drawer. And I replaced that pile of filth with a copy of 50 Shades of Gray. Much more tasteful.
Next, I removed the large pile of dead elf corpses from my office cupboard. To keep morale up, my aim is to downplay my staff death rate (which is at a record high due to coronavirus—the commie hoax).
Then I decided to have a bit of a dance. The great thing about solitude is one can let oneself rip, so I stripped naked and began grinding out my finest shapes.
Several problems then emerged:
- My gout made me realise dancing wasn’t a good idea.
- My gout made me collapse on the floor.
- My gout made me start screaming sweet effing murder.
- Markus, my head elf, rushed into the room to see what was happening.
- Markus, my head elf, politely excused himself upon seeing my obese frame thrashing about wildly on the floor.
I then became entangled in my stupid Santa beard, which is so vast these days I fear it’s inhabited by communists.
Thankfully, my bitch wife emerged to untangle me, call me “sweetums”, and then she cleared off in floods of tears. Daft wench.
Santa’s New Office Problems
The real issues with my new office began the next day when, during a drunken rampage, I eviscerated a wall.
The wall in particular is the adjacent bathroom wall, so now if you walk into the office you immediately have to deal with my putrid bathroom situation.
Suffering from IBS, let’s just say even Santa fears going near the thing.
Unfortunately, that day I had an important VIP visit to discuss investments and stakeholder stuff I barely understand at the best of times.
He entered my office and I went to greet him. My gout immediately struck and I bellowed, “Argggh, fuck!!!” This shocked the snowflake and he looked surprised.
“Man up, man!” I bellowed. “We’re capitalists! Made of stern stuff!” Lacking any lucidity he replied with, “Er…”
Taking this as an offense, I lugged my fist at him. But missed. I should also mention I was drunk and stark bollock naked.
Plus, the bathroom situation… I’d just been in there, so had Rudolph (still struggling with heroin addiction and the runs), and other elves. To put it mildly, the stench was so severe it was taking my breath away.
Or that may be due to the coronavirus thing, which Markus (my head elf) told me I have. Lying commie bastard! COVID-19!? ME?! LOL! I punched him in the face and he’s dead now.
Well, no, he’s just unconscious. But you get my point. I need to replace the sack of shit with someone competent.
But, anyway, the stakeholder guy wasn’t impressed and refused to inject the intended $400 million into the Santa monopoly. Big mistake, shit head.
Once I whipped out my shotgun (not a euphemism), he changed his mind. Blubbering like a little baby, I mocked him with the likes of “Diddums” and “Pillock bastard!”
Anyway, he still didn’t hand over the money. His corpse is now buried out the back.
However, his colleagues are asking why he hasn’t returned from our meeting. I told them to, “Fuck off!” But they keep asking where he is.
The police turned up to investigate and I presented them with a heroin-stricken Rudolph. The fucking nerve of the police officer! “Sir, this isn’t [investor’s name]. That’s Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. And I suggest he goes to hospital.”
Impertinent bastard! I took a slug at the copper but missed, punching Rudolph violently in the face by accident.
The police officers then asked me to calm down or I’d be arrested. Impudence! So I stripped off naked and charged at them.
Because it was so cold out, my gout-ridden ankles kind of gave up on me. And the officers just watched, startled, as I knobbly-kneed fell onto the floor. One of them laughed.
I called the bastard a, “Bastard piece of shit!!” And he said, “Sir, if you’re going to keep disturbing the peace, I’ll have to arrest you.” Rudolph then speared his gonads with his antlers. Lol.