After Santa did the paperwork last week, he’s a bit more active this time out! Indeed, catch up with him this time at his jolly best!
Seriously. There’s, like, not many wildly unnecessary deaths this week. It’s more a tale of chronic gluttony, gout, and other such excess.
Pleasing the Peasants
Due to legal requirements (300 hours of community service), I had to provide a live YouTube stream so my fans could post me questions.
I anticipated a lot of snotty nosed little shits would be piling onto this, so I prepared a list of barbed insults to put them in their place. These included:
- Show some respect to your elders!
- Why, you impudent little fool!
- Blast, what a rotter you are!
- Shut up, you bastard!
- I will hunt you down, you bastard!
- I will hunt you down and burn your house down so you’re down and out, you bastard!
- [Nonsensical screaming]
- [Frothing at the mouth]
I tried to memorise as much of those as possible, but I’d been drinking pretty heavily. So by the time the live stream came around, I’d totally forgotten I was even supposed to do anything.
My head elf, Mary, found me and led me to my office to do the stream.
But all the while I kept forgetting every 20 seconds and belabouring her for wasting my time. Eventually she wrote out what my task was and handed me the note. Every time I forgot, she told me to look at the note.
The haunting reality of what I was about to have to do was a draining blow. But I soon vomited over the note and it became illegible, so I had no issues calming myself down.
However, my memory loss problems continued and, once into the live stream, I kept forgetting why I was there.
Consequently, as stupid little kids kept posting me questions in chat I became quite confused and excitable.
Thankfully, I’d brought with me my list of insults and attempted to read from them while on camera. With middling results.
For example, I was often meandering with word salad. But did manage to manage one coherent line, “Respect your bastards, you rotter of an impudent!”
The court deemed the hour long live stream as, “Indicative of a highly disturbed mind, but satisfactory.”
They were also keen to avoid me doing any future live streams so waived the rest of my community service!
Santa’s Mince Pie Eating Frenzy
Unleashed after my legal duties, I wanted to celebrate. So I threw a mince pie eating competition!
I had Rudolph and the other stupid reindeer round up all the elves (at gunpoint, naturally). They escorted the diminutive freaks out onto the icy wasteland outside the factory.
There they all huddled, shivering furiously as they fended off hypothermia, the reindeer aiming their weapons at the little bastards.
It’s fair to say a lot of them thought they were going to be shot dead.
There was a 30 minute delay as I, a bit drunk at that point, stumbled about getting confused about everything. Then I turned up towing several tonnes worth of mince pies behind a bulldozer. Big surprise! As I pulled up I bellowed, “MINCE PIE EATING CONTEST!”
The look of relief on their stupid faces.
Some of them burst into tears in sheer joy at the mince pies and/or realising they weren’t about to be summarily executed.
“COME ON, EVERYONE! EAT!” I bellowed. “Whoever eats the most gets an afternoon off!”
But the ungrateful sacks of shit just stood there while me and the reindeer gorged on all of the mince pies.
“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING?! COME ON! EAT!” I bellowed at the stupid little pricks.
They didn’t join in, they just all stood stock still. “UNGRATEFUL BASTARDS!” I roared. “I OUGHT TO SACK THE LOT OF YOU!”
It later turned out frostbite had set in for many of the elves. They all found their legs and arms were frozen stiff and they couldn’t move towards the mince pies. All due to my 30 minute delay.
My fatuous wife said, “Maybe you should have held the contest indoors, dear.”
I threw my bottle of brandy at her. It missed and smashed into my head elf Mary. Straight into her stupid face as she stood frozen on the ice. She’s still unconscious as I write this.
JESUS H CHRIST! You try to do SOMETHING nice for your workforce and you end up with another unprecedented medical emergency.
Thankfully, only 100 elves succumbed to hypothermia.
The remaining 252 elves were thoughtful enough to come to my office a day afterward during their lunch break. They all thanked me for my generosity.
They didn’t get any mince pies, but we thawed out their frozen limbs inside the factory.
But I suspect they somehow weren’t being sincere with their praise and were more putting on a sycophantic show to appease me.
Irrelevant either way! It made me feel smug about myself.
And so, after the final elf had left after another heap of praise, I went to my drinking cabinet and poured myself a glass of my finest whiskey.
“I’ll just have one!” I announced to myself as I gulped down the fine substance.
Santa’s Space Program
I came to in the kitchen canteen in a giant vat of quiche the chef had been working on. It looked like I was covered in vomit.
Then I realised I was also covered in vomit. And naked. And with a bastard of a hangover, with an empty litre bottle of absinthe in one grubby hand.
My wife was standing nervously by the kitchen entrance, “Are you okay, dear?” I was dazed and couldn’t remember a thing. “What happened?” I asked.
She explained I’d gone on a marathon drinking spree and wanted to order “many bulldozers” for the factory.
After Rudolph explained I’d already done that before (see When Santa Got Stuck in the Toilet), I apparently became sullen and verbally abusive.
I disappeared for an hour and reappeared in factory unit 2 totally naked (having previously dressed again) and with a crude new business venture drawn in crayon on a vomit-stained piece of tattered paper.
Okay, so this is the mission statement I scrawled out. Bear in mind I was a little drunk when I wrote it:
“build a space rocket. goal is get first barbie doll onto moon and say ‘itz 1 small step for barbie dolls and one giant little bo peep for mankind’ and then everyone nows santa isn’t sexist and is amazing and the best human being ever and is rich and successful”
Hungover Santa didn’t quite have the same insistence on this idea as drunk me did.
But I’d already drunkenly diverted financing and resources onto the production of the rocket. The launch site is half a mile off from the factory.
Well… no going back now, I’ve ordered $1 billion worth of space rocket parts and I can’t cancel it. They have a no refund policy. Goddamn charlatans!
So… Santa is going to space. Guess I’ll be joining those heroic other successful rich people by showing the world how SUPERIOR I am to everyone.
It’ll be good PR! I’ve been under fire of late for the relentless employee deaths and various other scandals.
This’ll shut my critics up! And if it doesn’t, I’ll hunt them down and MURDER THEM ALL! AHAHAHAHAAHAAaa! Merry Christmas, everyone!