Exclusive Santa Column: The Santa Pants Conundrum

A Santa Claus toy model
Nice pants.

Santa’s back! And yeah, the push for Christmas Eve doesn’t really seem to be on his mind. At all. So, don’t hold out for that Buzz Lightyear toy just yet.

Ordering Some Santa Pants

I’ve long considered setting fire to my trousers as one of the best means of getting my way and/or getting other people to go away.

After recent disasters in the Christmas build-up, I see no other option but to keep setting fire to my Santa pants.

Problem is, I’ve been doing this so much I have few Santa pants left. As such, I’ve begun wearing my bitch wife’s clothing items.

That’s until my order of 7,000 new Santa pants arrives over the weekend. It’s getting shipped in by helicopter. Don’t say I’m not environmentally friendly! The Santa pants are vegan clothing items.

Anyway, while I wait that means I’ve been parading around in my spouse’s blouses, dresses, and skirts all week long.

While my employees have been pretty startled by this, I for one have found the situation rather liberating. I also think I look fetching in a dress. Most certainly!

However, the Santa pants arrived on time. Unfortunately, I was in a alcohol withdrawal frenzy when the helicopter arrived.

Believing my factory to be under attack from communists, I charged up to the roof and let rip with my bazooka.

Sure enough, my aim was true. The shot blasted into the side of the contraption and, in a ball of flames, the helicopter slammed violently into the ground.

It then blew up spectacularly! CCTV footage of me shows I laugh uproariously at that point. I then stripped naked and rushed out to the accident site where I began a, kind of, shamanic dancing ritual around the fire.

I demanded my elves join in. They refused at first, but once I started brandishing my bazooka at them they joined in.

We got a proper jolly going on! As we danced into the early hours of the morning, we sung Christmas carols. Along with some of the Christmas songs I’ve penned recently. These include:

  • The Christmas Bastard
  • Death, Disease, & Destruction at Yuletide
  • Ho, Ho, Ho, Santa is Drunk
  • Uh Oh, Santa’s Fouled Himself Again
  • Santa’s Vomit is the Best Vomit
  • I Hate Communists

The titles may seem pretty brutal, but the songs are all set to a sleigh bell type shanty so all the half drunk people at Christmas won’t know any better.

And with subliminal messages like that, we’ll head into 2021 with fair fewer communists in the world.

Where Are My Santa Pants?

It wasn’t until the next morning when I awoke dribbling and frothing at the mouth simultaneously that I realised… the Santa pants.

Yep, well they were all destroyed in the explosion. Except for the charred remains of about 300 pairs or so.

I immediately ordered Markus, my head elf, to get a team together and stitch some of the Santa pants back together.

They did an adequate job. Although the pants were still soaked in petroleum from the helicopter and badly charred, I felt it was a decent look for me. Like a heavy metal biker, you know?

However, the petroleum stuck to my skin and soon had me coming out in a pretty horrible red rash. And it was painful, too. It wasn’t long before my legs were going red raw!

In a bit of a panic, we got the factory nurse, Doreen, into my office to help me out.

I was smoking a cigar when she arrived, to which she was severely distressed. She demanded I put the thing out.

“Shut up, you precious, PC, lefty snowflake!” I bellowed. She insisted I may catch on fire if I continued. “Sod off, you libtard loser!” I roared back.

However, she wouldn’t relent. Sighing heavily, I stubbed the cigar out on my desk and heaved out a depressed, “God… libtards!” She then attended to me legs.

They were bloody painful by that point and she said I had to take my Santa pants off.

Now, I’m a bit of a naturist. So any chance to get nude is fine by me. Except trying to get the pants over my red raw legs was searing bloody agony!

I was roaring and bellowing sweet bloody murder.

This alerted Rudolph, who was in the grips of a cocaine and heroine frenzy at the time. Convinced I was under attack, he did what any dear friend would.

He fired up one of my reserve flame throwers, burst into my office, and let rip indiscriminately.

Well, stoned Rudolph had no idea what he was aiming at. All I can say is we now need a new factory nurse. Yes, Doreen quit.

Probably because she was partially engulfed in a fireball and her right side went up in flames. I bellowed at my elves to put her out.

Thankfully, my nearby spittoon was full to capacity. Whilst the others dawdled about in a panic, it was Santa to the rescue.

I grabbed the spittoon and hurled it over Doreen. Most of the flames went out, but she was still a bit on fire. “Quick! Gob on her!” Rudolph screamed.

So, we all did out bit. As she lay on the floor screaming we gathered around spitting on the stupid woman. Right until the final flame went out.

Without a word, she got up and left. Without thanking us! Bitch.

Anyway, days later I got warning of an employment tribunal claim from her. I reminded her I have atom bombs and was willing to send one in her direction. Wisely, she backed down.

You see, boys and girls? Don’t fuck with Santa! Oh, and Merry Christmas.


Dispense with some gibberish!

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