Last time out there was some sort of Barbie doll mutant zombie invasion at Santa’s factory. This time out, he’s got a side hustle on the road.

Just a reminder, we’re contractually obliged to run these weekly newsletters over the Christmas build-up. But we don’t really want to.

Santa’s Fairy Tale: Beauty and the Belch

With all the destruction of property at the factory of late, I need to get surplus income to pay the repair bills. So Santa decided to write an age-appropriate fairy tale.

I’ve called it Beauty and the Belch.

My stupid wife heard the title and said, “Oh, like the Disney film!” I glared at her violently and snapped, “What Disney film, woman!?”

She shuffled out of the room quietly. Bitch.

Anyway, and naturally, I decided to make myself the Belch character of the story. I’m such a fascinating and brilliant individual, so it makes perfect sense.

I started drinking heavily and put together what I believe to be the finest piece of prose ever put by pen to paper. I did get some puke and gin over the paper, but that doesn’t undermine the sheer beauty of the worldly words one have behoved onto the world. Behold!

Beauty and the Belch Transcript

One day, in a magical land of ice and snow, there were an ultra-handsome man called Father Christmas who were really rich and successful because of his hard work and superiority over everyone else.

Father Christmas were SO handsome and wealthy. All women wanted to be with him. All geezers wanted to BE him.

But one day, through no fault of his own, he were transformed into a horrible monster by an evil communist witch! Ashamed, Father Christmas took himself into hiding to plan his revenge on the bastard who did this to him. He stayed in a man cave in the North Pole. And he renamed himself Belch, as being a massive, hairy monster gave him terrible gas (for some reason).

One day, when he were out buying bazookas in town to get his sweet, sweet revenge on the witch bitch, he ran into a smoking hot babe. Belch remembered he were not looking his best and, momentarily, thought about leaving this moment be. But then he ignored such idiotic perception and hit on the bitch anyway. “Hey babe!” he growled.

The babe in question took one look at him, “AIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEE!!!” she screamed in terror. “What the fuck’s your problem!?” Belch bellowed. The daft wench ran off before answering. Luckily, the stupid yellow dress she were wearing made her fleeing progress somewhat tardy. Belch were able to catch right back up with her in no more than 25 seconds. “WOMAN!” Belch bellowed. “AIIIIIIEEEE!!!”

Well, Belch grabbed the babe and, along with his bazookas (not a euphemism), ambled at speed back to his man cave.

There, over the next three days, the babe (or “Hannah” as she kept insisting she be called) were drawn increasingly to Belch’s brooding, masculine belching and hairy back.

“Could this be so?” Belch mused, before belching vociferously. “Could this smoking hot babe be the love of mine life?!”

He mused so while Hannah sat just three feet away from him, for it were a small man cave in which he called his humble abode, and she said, “No.”

“What!?” Belch barked.

“Seriously, no. Sorry, but I’m not interested. Can I go now, please?”

“No! Can I have your Snapchat, babe?”

“No! My phone doesn’t even have a reception out here. Besides, you’d just send me unsolicited hairball pics. I can tell you’re the type.”

“Babe, I would not send you unsolicited hairball pics.”

“Okay then, promise me you won’t send unsolicited hairball pics!”

“No.”

“See, I told you!”

“Babe, can I have your Instagram?”

“You’re… no!”

“WhatsApp, babe?”

“No!”

“Well what can we use to chat on, babe?”

“We’re chatting right now, you idiot!”

“What?”

“You’re so annoying!”

Belch grew frustrated with the woman’s inane prattling. Frustrated, he rose to his feet and roared, “GIVE ME YOUR SNAPCHAT, TROLLOP! It is out destiny to fall in love with me! I have seen it in a dream.” Belch then began a long, long, super long howl and was disappointed it was only 1pm in the afternoon, as opposed to late at night, as a full Moon would have made it all much more dramatic than the damp squib of a moment.

Anyway, Belch went to bed that night drunk. When he came to in the morning hungover and covered in slobber, he found the smoking hot babe was gone. “BITCH!” he growled.

Bounding out of his man cave, Belch followed the footsteps the babe had left in the snow. They went on for miles and miles. “YOU ARE THE LOVE OF MINE LIFE, BITCH!” Belch roared over and over.

However, and eventually, he came across the frozen solid remains of the smoking hot babe out on the snow, with one polar bear munching away on the corpse. “NOT ON YOUR NELLY! I’LL SAVE YOU!” Belch bellowed and rugby tackled the polar bear, with much roaring and munching continuing in the name of saving the already dead damsel in distress. After 30 minutes of bitter fighting, the pair broke off for a lunch break and had a discussion, “Look,” says the polar bear, who goes by the name of Margaret, “What’s the beef here? I was just scavenging. We can share the corpse if it suits you!”

But at that moment, space saucers suddenly turned up, along with Mahatma Gandhi, John Lennon, and Vlad the Impaler. Belch was astonished and watched on as the aliens and the three others began enjoying a tea party while engaging in polite conversation over the corpse of the smoking hot babe. “Huh?” Belch opined.

Then, violently, Father Christmas awoke with a violent start! He was drenched in vomit and sweat. “Shit!” he bellowed. “It were all a dream!!”

And, thus, ends this beautiful story about love, loss, and other such happenings. The moral of the story? Respect your elders!

Dun, dun, dun! Good, right? Shakespeare? Shitspeare, more like!

This writing lark is a piece of piss. I’m already trying to get it made into a film. Brad Pitt must play me. I’m insistent on Brad Pitt. It’s Brad Pitt or no film!

And Sigourney Weaver will play the damsel in distress.

I may have to make an adjustment for the film screenplay so that Sigourney Weaver survives and her and Santa (me) live together in the man cave while she chortles at my jokes and worships the ground I walk on.

Anyway, yeah… that took me all week to write that story.

Markus, my head elf, persistently reminded me that Christmas 2022 is rapidly approaching and we’ve completed 1% of our toy making quota.

But I just kept bellowing at him to “Fuck off!” whenever he came into my quarters. Genius at work and all that.