Our dear readers, we do apologise for the Santa Claus bloodbath last week and can only hope to promote good news this week!

And that is… Santa is now seeing a shrink! No, it’s not Dr. Frasier Crane. It’s just a standard therapist person. Hopefully, this’ll solve some of Santa’s glaring personality flaws.

The Life of Santa

I began the week carrying a bucket of my effluence around with me as an act of superiority. I’d stop people and say, “Oi. OI!!! You can’t do this. And you know you can’t!”

And they agreed. Because it was a great big bucket filled with the stuff. Whilst I was proud, everyone else was disgusted. And I found that hilarious.

I’d turn up at 2am with the bucket, shoving it in my elves’ faces (or should that read… faeces!?). And I pretended to invite my wife (Mrs. Santa Claus) for a romantic dinner. But on the table for the romantic candlelit dinner was the bucket!

She, once again, accused me of “depravity” and I told the stupid wench to cram a sock in it or I’d gun her down with a bazooka.

Anyway, I was pretty drunk during most of the above and specifics were only confirmed to me by CCTV footage. Which I can only watch when drunk after the event, otherwise I find my antics pretty boring to behold.

So, yes, I went up to the roof of Santa’s factory and began firing off my bazooka in any direction. It was when I began detonating TNT to go with that around the premises my employees and family members seemed to have enough.

After I lost consciousness, I awoke to find myself in a kind of prison.

Some smug pretentious git had turned up and was bleating on and on about various things to me and I seriously lunged at him to punch his face in. But I were strapped into place. WTF!?

Santa Faces an Intervention

It’s an intervention. In other words, my so called “peers” around me have decided I’ve lost it and need support to be more stable. Well, shit, they will burn for this. Burn.

And I’m not even angry about this. Just snide. A snide Santa is a psychotic Santa and I could envision everyone I know BURNING on a giant FIRE in the name of revenge.

My fury initially came across as me bellowing abuse at the psychiatrist as she attempted to reason with me. “BITCH!” I roared. “BITCH!” Over and over. Whenever she tried to reason with me through her brand of pseudo-scientific garbage I’d gob openly at her and ask her to marry me or date me. Or both.

She soon became utterly exasperated and accused me of being “unstable” and “in need of severe assistance, which is forthcoming.”

I was furious about that as her assault on my capitalistic brilliance (I’M RICH!) is clear for all to see. To gain superiority over the puny woman I told her she looked like a turd.

I was really proud of that line.

She responded by handing me a survey to complete, which resulted in me maxing out metrics on psychopathic and narcissistic personality disorder traits.

I saw no problem with that. The wench said it was why I was so “cold” and “unstable”. I went to throttle her by the throat, but I was stopped by my general inebriation.

Instead, with my pants around my ankles, I piled onto the floor and flapped about like a hopeless moron.

Lesson learned? I should really try to stay sober before 10am.

Santa’s Psychopath Test

So, for the next session I went to see the stupid bitch I decided to concoct MY OWN psychopath test.

For I believe all psychiatrists to be under the control of the leftists, custom designed to denigrate the superior hardworking people. This is the survey I handed the “psychiatrist”:

• Do you fancy me (Santa)?
  • Yes, as you’re utterly gorgeous beyond reason.
  • No, because I am a leftist and entirely responsible for WWII.
• What do you think of Santa’s big beard?
  • It’s so awe-inspiring I cry myself to sleep about it.
  • It’s just a beard mate (and as a leftist I’m only impressed by climate change).
• Are psychopaths sexy?
  • Yes and I am in love with Santa!
  • Not especially, it’s more a case of they exploit capitalist society to [blah, blah, blah, jealously, blah].
• What’s the first word that enters your head when you think of Santa?
  • Pure, unadulterated lust.
  • God’s gift to beards.
  • Genius.
  • Magnificent.
  • A beer belly that defines a generation.
  • Gout on the level of a masterpiece.

Anyway, the “psychiatrist” said my test is based on “subjective irrationality” and I said she’s a “stupid dickhead” and stripped naked to prove my point.

That got me forcibly removed from the premises and I was referred to a male psychiatrist.

I figured the stripped naked bit was like the kryptonite of psychiatrists, so continued on with that from session one with the new guy.

Sure enough, I was soon forwarded onto a psychiatry ward in a straightjacket kind of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest style.

However, after they realised I was genuinely Santa (due to me frothing at the mouth about it) I was let loose and returned to the North Pole.

The moral of the story? Mental health is shit!

I’m a Barbie Girl

Upon returning to the Santa factory I wanted to prove my sanity to my halfwit workforce. I did this by crossdressing as Barbie.

This was set between severe bouts of drink and drugs-based binges. Which usually left me in a pool of vomit before 11pm.

To distract my employees, I ordered Rudolph (struggling as he is with heroin addiction) to blast The Village People’s hit YMCA at full volume 24/7.

Rudolph duly did so and within 24 hours the confusion within the factory was evident.

Not helped as Rudolph’s heroin withdrawal also led to him savagely ramming his antlers into anyone’s’ backside he came across.

My wife later told me the factory resembled a “war zone” during this period, to which I told her she was a doddering dunce. This upset her, confirming my suspicions about her inferior state of mind.

Meanwhile, I soon grew bored of my Barbie routine and switched to nudity.

My new head elf, Mary, suggested I at least wear pants. I tried to throttle her by the throat but my left ankle was jammed in the toilet in my bedroom quarters at the time.

And that’s where I remained for some time! Stuck. I kept bellowing for assistance but it was 5am. Rudolph (with mania-stricken, bloodshot eyes) came through to tell me the factory was 40% on fire.

I expressed disappointment it wasn’t 70% and went to take a swig of whiskey. But the bottle was on the other side of the bathroom.

Infuriated, I bellowed so furiously I bloodshot an eye and wet myself.

I briefly considered if the psychiatrists were right, before remembering I’m wealthy and automatically superior to everyone else and everyone else is just jealous.

Then I vomited on the floor. Of my bathroom. Which has a gold encrusted toilet seat. I admired myself, so, for this superiority.

And as such I staggered into the burning quarters of my factory to extinguish the inferno by trying to take a leak on all of it.

Sadly, my whiskey soaked urine did little to help and I actively watched over 20 elves go up in a ball of flames due to my toiletry requirements.

You really just can’t get the goddamn staff these days!