Last time out, Santa visited a psychiatrist. Those visits have been put on hold now, as this week disaster struck the North Pole factory.
Yes, there’s been a lice outbreak and Santa has been draconian in his pursuit in punishing anyone he believes to be responsible. Let’s catch up with the Christmas cheer!
A Fate Worse Than Death
If anyone has ever had lice, you’ll know just how gut-wrenching an experience it is.
Like really badly needing to have a pee, but there’s no toilet for miles around so you have to wet yourself. But someone sees you’ve done that and laughs at you, so you punch their face in but then get arrested for assault. Then it turns out the arresting coppers are corrupt and expect you to sing Christmas carols for release on bail, forcing you to debase yourself to the highest possible standard while they jeer at you. Bastards.
That’s lice. Just it’s all over your head and beard. And no matter how much itching you do it JUST… GETS… WORSE!
I realised I have lice after 24 hours, having spent the day presuming the feeling was chronic delirium tremens.
That’s often the case and I’m used to it. There’ll be walruses and cabbages hurling abuse at me from the corners of my mind, while I bellow back at them to, “GET A JOB!”
Well, no, this time it’s lice. Proper lice.
Upon realising that realisation I panicked quite insanely. Never mind the pandemic shit, this is far, far worse! The factory was immediately shut down and no one was allowed to leave or enter the premises.
Thankfully, I had in my storage 27,000 litres of chemical grade bleach.
What followed was an orgy of bleach bathing, with every single member of staff clambering into a giant vat of bleach for a 30 minute cleanse.
We await to see if the results are successful.
I certainly feel less lice-induced itchy, but after my bleach bath much of my skin has begun peeling off and there’s a gaping wound that’s opening on my right thigh.
So, I went straight to the factory nurse. But she was unconscious and all the skin seemed to be moulting from her body.
Approaching my idiotic wife, I asked what the hell was going on. She went to speak but all this bleach sort of spewed out of her mouth and she keeled over while juddering. Stupid woman.
Finally, I located my head elf Mary. She was in the admin quarters attempting to process quarterly utility bills, but all the skin was peeling from her hands and body.
She became quite hysterical when she saw me, bloated and bright red with my enormous beer gurgling ominously.
To be fair I really did feel pretty goddamn awful. I put that down to the hangover, but then I remembered being warned not to drink any bleach by Rudolph as he was mixing the vat together.
Well, I guess I failed there. And I vomited quite copiously over Mary, the computer, and kind of my beer gut as well. Bugger.
Mary pretty much passed out after that, daft cow, and I staggered off into the main quarters of the factory.
There was much bedlam. Moaning elves clutching at their stomachs, vomiting, skin peeling off and clogging up the corridors.
I retired to my quarters to sleep it off.
I slept for five days. When I came too I could see my skin was bright red and blotchy with loads of scabs all over it.
Throwing up copiously, I staggered into the bathroom and chugged from a glass of TCP before pouring the rest over my aching my body. My screams were heard outside the factory.
Then I slathered body lotion and Sudocrem all over my person. And I staggered out into the factory looking like the Abominable snowman.
Sure enough, when the elves started seeing me they started shrieking hysterically and running away. I found that hilarious.
They were also all bright red and clearly suffering from body blistering. And I couldn’t tell if they were working… or loafing off!
I went off looking for my head elf, Mary, but instead stumbled across Rudolph in one of his heroin-induced frenzies.
He took one look at me and really lost it big time, honking crazily at me and charging with his antlers pointed at my gonads. Well, he thought I was the Abominable snowman.
“Rudolph, you stupid bastard, it’s me!” I managed to bellow.
Thankfully, he was too out of it to aim properly and missed by a country mile.
He instead slammed into the wall a few feet away and lay on the ground braying in dismay. He was unable to right himself due to his drug-addled predicament, so I left him to it.
Little Donkey On Repeat
Feeling angry about all of the happenings, I suddenly got a yearning for that disgusting nativity song Little Donkey.
I ordered Mary to have this blasted at full volume throughout the factory from our loudspeakers.
As her fingers were almost red raw, it took her an hour to get the sound system up and running. But once the song kicked in, it was a delight!
I ordered it be left on and 48 hours later it was driving everyone insane.
Suddenly I’d see groups of elves staggering around, as if in a trance, reciting along with the lyrics whilst drooling:
Little donkey, little donkey, had a heavy day,
Little donkey, carry Mary, safely on her way,
Little donkey, carry Mary, safely on her way.
The sight of them like that whilst labouring under bleach burns made my heart soar with capitalistic might.
To try and add to the occasion, I went and spruced up the unconscious Rudolph. I dressed him up like a little donkey! “So cute!” My wife squealed.
Unfortunately, this shriek of delight brought Rudolph out of his stoned reverie.
Coming to in the midst of a heroin withdrawal frenzy, he came to, and then saw his reflection in a mirror.
It’s difficult to describe the noise he made. Kind of like the sound of a zeppelin imploding as it collides with a walrus.
To put it simply, Rudolph went ballistic. He mowed down 100+ elves in his deranged frenzy and it was only when I rugby tackled I ended the carnage.
He’s now locked in the panic room until he recovers.
Grief. All this because of lice! And I didn’t find out who’s responsible for bringing it into the factory!
To avoid future outbreaks, I now demand everyone entering the factory have a bleach bath. That causes considerable complaint (especially from the postman who delivers the mail every day, who after three bleach baths began resembling a zombie), but I don’t care!
It’s like that famous saying goes. “Time is money!” And bleach saves time. Voilà.