Another week. More Santa. Last time out it was all about those ridiculous Christmas jumper things. But it gets worse this time out. Much worse. Over to Santa…

Overcoming Adversity (With Drugs)

I had recent issues with a leg wound that was most annoying. To overcome that, I hit the steroids (and whiskey) to become a better version of myself.

What can I say? Buff Santa really is a sight to behold!

Rippling muscles. Mighty barrel chest. Massive vein bulging worryingly from the right side of my temple like bloody Vesuvius.

The only downside to my physical transformation is I keep suffering from almost uncontrollable fits of psychotic rage. Naturally, it’s my employees and stupid wife who have to handle these sudden outbursts.

With steroids, I don’t need to worry about appalling hangovers destroying my early morning productivity. Whereas in the past I used to wallow about vomiting until the early morning booze lifted the nausea, now I begin each day by pummelling my fists into a wall.

Then I get onto the tannoy system and bellow this.

“GUUUURGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!”

That’s usually at about 5am. It wakes the elves up like you wouldn’t believe! Ho ho ho.

I rush down to factory unit one and command the elves to get on with the Barbie doll production, which is always the most complex part of Christmas. I know from past data we need at least 10 billion Barbie dolls for the stupid little girls across the world. I remember that right back from the 1960s.

With inflation in mind, I know for Christmas 2022 we need at least 50 billion Barbie dolls. However, my head elf Markus challenged that statistic.

It wasn’t his smartest move as his impertinence landed him in a coma.

If I goddamn well say we need 50 billion Barbie dolls, THEN WE NEED 50 BILLION GODDAMN BARBIE DOLLS! And to show I wasn’t kidding, I transformed that figure to 60 BILLION just to be on the safe side.

Bellowing out this news to the elves working in factory unit one, the look of horror on their stupid little faces filled me with inner glee.

By the end of the day one of them, Jeff, came up to me and said they’d produced 1,100 Barbie dolls that day—a record for the factory. But he said it’d take in excess of 1,000 years to produce the amount of Barbie dolls I was demanding and so it wasn’t feasible in the long run.

In fact, he said my request was “absurd” and “unreasonable”.

Repairing Factory Unit One

I don’t really have any memory of what took place the previous night, but the almost total destruction of factory unit one took place.

My stupid wife was horrified.

“What’s the matter with you, silly woman!?” I barked. She was staggering about pale and clearly in shock. I told Nurse Doreen to give her a shot of cortisone and a glass of brandy. It didn’t do the trick, my wife just retired to our quarters to rest. You just can’t get the staff these days.

Anyway, Markus found me in my quarters. I was on steroids and drinking vodka from the bottle, as was the new norm.

Markus had a bandage around his head, having recovered from his coma. He was carrying a small shopping bag with him. Markus looked upset.

“What the hell is your problem!?” I snarled.

Turns out, what was left of Jeff was in the bag. Markus looked very upset, but I just burst out laughing. “Well, if he’s poor he should work harder!” I chortled.

I turned my attention to my computer spreadsheet, which I’d created to map the progress of the Barbie doll 2022 project. “According to my calculations, Markus, we need to be producing at least thirty million Barbie dolls DAILY to meet this quota. If you succeed with this task I’ll ensure the elf workforce all receives a generous one percent pay rise!”

Markus started stuttering a bit.

I was going to put him  back in a coma, but Rudolph turned up. He was clearly suffering from chronic heroin withdrawal and collapsed in a heap on the floor defecating and drooling.

Ignoring that lot, I stalked off down to factory unit one.

Jesus… wept.

There was no fire. Just the whole thing was razed. Gone. No Barbie dolls, just an open patch of icy wasteland where once proudly stood my factory machinery. I grabbed a passing, dazed elf by the scruff of the neck and began bellowing into its stupid face.

Turns out I’d got a bit drunk the night before.

That, combined with my new mighty man muscles, ensured the usual devastation saved for my bazooka (not a euphemism) went ahead instead with my fists.

Hmmm… with ambitious goals at hand, I realised the steroids were a problem. In an act of great maturity, I performed a self-aware intervention and decided to step away from the drugs. They’ll destroy a man if he lacks the perspicacity to self-reform. What sort of businessman would I be if I couldn’t self-analyse? Not a successful one, for sure!

I retired to my quarters for the day to mull over how to repair the factory and return Christmas 2022 onto its correct, Barbie doll happy pathway.

Journey to the Centre of the Earth

So, I got bored during the night and got pretty wasted. I woke up naked and in a heap in the garbage bins out back covered in pizza crusts and snow.

My previously steroid pumped body had already sagged considerably. My massive beer gut was back, protruding out and getting in everyone’s way. To mark my return, I belched exuberantly between swigs of vodka from the bottle.

Staggering back into the factory, I could hear the most colossal bastard of a noise.

No one was around! I followed the racket until I came through to where factory unit one was, only to see the most batshit crazy nonsense I had ever had the misfortune, in all my years as a hyper-successful and high achieving and ultra-successful business owner, to witness.

A giant drill. All the elves. Lots of drilling, noise, sparks… mayhem.

They were drilling into the ground! It was a huge gaping hole already at least 30-30 feet. Markus saw me and came over with a flipchart, handing it me. He dipped his hardhat and said, “Sir, the hole is well underway, as requested.”

“What the fuck is that thing?!” I enquired.

Markus just gave me one of his, “Oh, Christ, he has no memory of what he demanded of us on pain of death last night again…” kind of looks.

“WELL!?” I bellowed.

Turns out I’d demanded, on pain of death by bazooka, that we drill a hole to the centre of the Earth. Drunk Santa believed there to be a secret stash of billions of Barbie dolls at the very core of the Earth planted there many millennia ago by Barbie doll crazed aliens.

The more I continued to drink that morning, the more my mission made sense.

However, by the afternoon I was drunk and crotchety and ordered the elves to stop. One of them, John, asked me, “Why?!” I punched his stupid elf face in.

Later, the massive hole was transformed into the new cesspit for the elves. That’s some clever business innovation right there.