Remember, if you can, that song Return of the Mack from 1996.
Now imagine a very drunk, obese, and outraged Santa Claus insisting his sporadic gout attacks in some way relate to that song.
Well, that’s the parallel he’s drawn this week, after last week’s Santa on Steroids session. Enjoy!
So I’m Back Up in the Gout
My gout is back. I went gangsta to celebrate, busting out that #1 from a few years back about returning triumphantly:
(Return of the Gout) Come on,
(Return of the Gout) Oh my God,
(You know that it’ll be back) Here it is,
(Return of the Gout) Once again,
(Return of the Gout) Pump up my foot,
(Return of the Gout) Watch it swell,
(You know that it’ll be back) Here I gout.
Drunk, I lost interest in that state of affairs pretty quickly and invented a new type of sandwich. This one has pop tarts and spaghetti hoops. I call it the Spaghetti Tart.
I bellowed wittily to my wife, “JUST LIKE YOU, BITCH!”
She gave me a disapproving look. Stupid woman. To prove her wrong, I demanded Doreen (the factory chef and nurse) to cook 1,000 Spaghetti Tarts for my elf employees.
My head elf, Markus, warned me there were only 13 pop tarts left in storage.
Then I remembered that story from the Bible. That one about fish and stupid poor people and how they were too lazy to have personal responsibility. I saw this as a moment of some equanimity, where I could distribute pop tarts to the masses and prove myself to be on the level of the messiah.
Unfortunately, that moment was squandered when I detonated 600 pounds worth of Semtex in a drunken mishap.
Needless to say, the 13 pop tarts were blown to smithereens and all this story is now about not parking your arse on the wrong detonation trigger.
The Iceberg Zeppelin
During my drunken frenzy the previous night I became convinced an iceberg zeppelin was what the New World needed.
My head elf, Markus, informed me “they” stopped making zeppelins in 1937. To which I quipped, “Well, it’s only 1938, Markus! Keep up!” Then he told me it’s actually 2022. I lunged at him, but my gout hobbled me and I fell to the floor bellowing obscenities.
I viewed that moment as resplendent of the Hindenburg disaster, with my big fat Santa butt and red Santa clothing representative of the event.
Markus said the comparison was “a bit disrespectful”.
I tried to lunge at him again but, alas, gout is a stringent beast. I was rooted to the spot bellowing abuse at all and sundry.
But when a genius idea takes root, it’s difficult to shift.
And I’m the boss.
As such, within 24 hours my workforce had crafted a beautiful and spectacular 800 ft by 140 ft monstrosity made out of hollow ice. The thing was out back of the factory in the icy wilderness staying cool. I ordered everyone out there to see the launch.
It was, like, 24 pm by that point, as I observed in my diary. I pointed this out to Markus at the time, “Why the bastard is it twenty four post meridiem?!” He seemed hesitant to say anything. Stupid little git.
I continued drinking heavily. A few hours later I observed it was 13 minutes past the 20th of August, 1856. I grabbed Markus by the scruff at the neck and bellowed into his stupid elf face.
However, I wasn’t grabbing Markus at all.
Why, it was great friend Aqrabuamelu the Scorpion Man! That and his disgusting friend Camazotz the Death Bat. I’d been keeping a can of deodorant in my underpants for this EXACT moment! To impress with my magnitude. While also having a handy weapon to take out Camazotz.
Once she merged, I sprayed the bitch down!
Aqrabuamelu was unusually distressed about this. Flapping his giant stinger around in a panic. I was taken aback! To distract from the commotion, I demanded the iceberg zeppelin (which I’d christened We All Have the Same 24-Hours in the Day, in honour of my superior work ethic) to launch!
We All Have the Same 24-Hours in the Day had a bit of a lugubrious start.
She shifted heavily in the rampaging snowstorm of that moment, then careered across the sky and nudged into factory unit four. Then a gust of wind steadily led her to nudge into factory unit three. The zeppelin bounced off that and then careered off into the distance.
It then disappeared into the snowstorm.
I commanded Markus to trail it with one of our dog sleigh teams, but he was comatose on the floor with deodorant all over him. Useless prick! At least he smelled nice.
Anyway, we didn’t hear about the iceberg zeppelin until days later.
Once it appeared on the radars of multiple nations, it triggered off concerns about all-out nuclear war and the onset of WWIII. Tensions calmed down once it drifted on the wind towards England. It began melting.
What was left of the structure eventually crash landed onto a local chippy in Bolton of Greater Manchester, demolishing all the lovely fish, chips, gravy, and butter pies. God…
Santa’s Butter Pie Frenzy
Few things upset Santa. But the reported loss of 13 butter pies at that Bolton chippy hit home hard. Tragedies like that should never happen!
Horrified by that development, I pledged to ensure EVERY citizen of Earth receive a COMPLETELY FREE butter pie with their Christmas Day loot in 2022.
It’s my commitment to the butter pie cause. Love those things! Hate to see them needlessly wasted like that.
Oh yeah, the iceberg zeppelin killed 26 people, too, and maimed 12 others. I was quite pleased about it to be honest. Fewer tossers to have to make presents for!
I was so depressed about the butter pies I hit the bottle. Hard.
Days later, I emerged out of that drinking spree a better man. Or… should that say, butter man!? Am I right!? Ho! Ho! Ho!
Anyway, once the DTs kicked in I became a bit unstable. Markus, my head elf, later reported I was frothing at the mouth, hallucinating about giant blocks of butter attacking me, and continuously bellowing that football chant, “WHO ATE ALL THE PIES!?”
However, I was grammatically insistent about the chant being, “WHOM ATE ALL THE PIES!?” And I became quite psychotically violent towards anyone who questioned my use of pronouns.
In my deranged frenzy, I diverted all of the factory’s resources towards butter pie baking.
Markus warned me the factory “couldn’t take it”.
I sellotaped Markus to the factory chimney to teach the little bastard a lesson. And I demanded Rudolph stand on the factory roof pointing and laughing at Markus every 35 seconds. Ritual humiliation is a big part of successful business leadership.
After 48 hours of straight butter pie creation, the factory was running on full cylinders and pushing the boundaries of baking.
The pies were baked. Then they were lined up in the snow outside to freeze for shipping on Christmas day. Working smarter, not harder, see?
Unfortunately, the smell of fresh butter and flour baking attracted many wild polar bears from hundreds of miles around. I went out one morning and there were 40 of the bastards MUNCHING DOWN ON THE PIES!
Drunk and outraged, I tore all of my clothes off and charged at the hairy gits while bellowing obscenities. But they were totally unconcerned about me. To them, I was this innocuous little mosquito, or something.
And I was kicking one in the shins really goddamn hard… but it just totally ignored me! All while it scoffed down the butter pies!
“YOU BASTARD!” I bellowed at it.
Anyway, they decimated the pies and then lumbered off in the snow with me chasing after them, bellowing obscenities, and stumbling about in the nude.
Rudolph had to get the snowplough and collect me from three miles out into the icy wilderness, where my legs had frozen solid and I was stuck bellowing abuse at the retreating polar bears.
Naturally, I got frostbite and hypothermia real bad.
Rudolph dragged me back and the elves thawed me out next to one of the factory’s furnaces. I then got very drunk and ate many butter pies.
The next morning, hungover to all crap, I rolled over and my big toe triggered a fit of bellowing agony for me. Oh God. Return of the gout.