Last time out, Santa threw a birthday party to try and escape from his problems. However, they’ve now caught up with him big time.
Fascinating insights this week into the business world and what it takes to operate as a business owner on the cusp of immense genius.
Not Born in the U.S.A
After seeing the Santa factory drenched in effluence and corpses, my stakeholders demanded I fly to New York to explain myself in their plush office in lower Manhattan.
I arrived six days late for a variety of reasons:
- For the first flight I was too “drunk and belligerent” (or so the airport staff said), so was banned from boarding the flight.
- That happened for the next two flights and I was told I wouldn’t be boarding any flights unless I was in a, “Rational frame of mind.”
- On the fourth flight I’d taken a bunch of horse tranquilisers to calm down long enough to fly from North Pole-New York. The stuff was so strong it knocked me out mid-flight and the pilot had to make an emergency landing in Barbados. I was rushed to hospital to have my stomach pumped.
- For the fifth flight I was refused alcohol and drugs, so had to lie prone on the floor hungover and miserable. That was the worst five hours of my life.
The passengers hated me, I was puking everywhere and bellowing, “I’M SANTA CLAUS!!” But none of them believed me.
One suited guy in first class sneered down at me, “You are not Santa Claus. You are a disgrace! Get back into budget class.”
I hurled my first class ticket at him and tried to gouge his eyes out, but the on-flight sky marshal tasered me down until I was a slobbering, juddering wreck on the floor.
And that’s how I arrived into New York—barely conscious, gurgling, and having fouled myself. You can’t say Santa’s life isn’t glamourous.
New York, New York Airport Customs
Stumbling and lumbering off the plane, half naked and covered in filth, the security guards took one look at Santa and pulled their guns on me.
“Freeze!” One of them yelled.
“I’m from the North Pole, I often do…” I quipped.
“HANDS UP!” A second one yelled
My instinctive instincts kicked in and I went to yank out my bazooka (not a euphemism), but, of course, because of snowflake woke policies I’m not allowed a goddamn bazooka on a flight or at an airport.
I tried to ignore the security guards and when one told me to “HIT THE FLOOR!” I bellowed at him to “PISS OFF, YOU SLAG!” which resulted in a bunch of them rugby tackling me to the ground while roaring about my right to get a lawyer.
I was strip searched and had my blood tested, with traces of alcohol, cocaine, animal tranquilisers, heroin, Valium, barbiturates, and cement found in my system.
One security guard looked at me funny as I sat, semi-naked, in the airport detainment room. “Cement?!” He said, looking confused. I bellowed back at him, “I’m Santa Claus. NO TOYS FOR YOU AND YOUR CHILDREN!”
Anyway, after 12 hours of being strip searched, losing control of my bodily functions while being strip searched (it wasn’t intentional), being tasered to the ground again, and more… they finally realised I’m Santa Claus.
One of the security guards quickly drew up a Christmas list of toys his kid wanted and excitedly handed it over to me.
“It’d mean a lot to my family, sir. We… we struggle to cover the bills… times are tough. My partner works two jobs and…”
He carried on like that while I sat there drooling. All those tasering sessions had screwed my nervous system and it was difficult to close my mouth.
I feebly took his Christmas list (which I later used as toilet paper on my Santa butt) and mumbled, “Uh…”
That seemed to cheer the guy up. The rest of the security guards led me out of customs and waved me off as I shambled incoherently towards the airport exit.
The Stakeholder Meeting
I tried hailing a taxi, but none of the SOBs would take me. I caught a look of myself in a window and figured why.
I looked a bit like the abominable snowman. One covered in excrement, drool, puke, and with this wild look in my bloodshot to all hell eyes. Basically, I looked like the type of raging alcoholic who’d punch your face in for a shot of brandy and leave you lying in the street while I enjoyed said shot of brandy.
And that’s how I looked when I arrived at the plush business suite in the Financial District of New York (one taxi driver, who’d lost the sight in one eye, agreed to drive me. Perseverance is key for business success. Hard work!).
On the taxi ride over I’d stopped for an hour to pick up gin and was well on with it by the time I arrived at the address. “This is the right building, taxi driver!?” I cheerfully roared from the back seat.
Apparently it was. I then tried to do a runner, shoving the door open and hobbling as fast as I could on my gout-ridden ankles to escape the $30 fare. However, it was all done with Uber anyway so the money had come straight out of my account.
Bastard taxi driver still rated my online account 1/5 anyway for trying to do a runner. And in his comment he put:
“Stank like shit while dressed like Santa Claus. Guy is a nutcase.”
In response, I gave the guy 1/5 in MY review and wrote in MY comment:
“worst taxi driver and hes definitely a lesbian”
I was busy typing out that masterpiece of wit on my phone while in the swanky as bastard business suite, the 12 stakeholders staring down at me with contempt from the top of the sleek conference room table.
“Mr. Claus…” The head suit said, trying to get me off the phone.
“What?!” I barked back, busy with my review.
“Mr. Claus… you are almost an entire week late for this scheduled meeting.”
“Mr. Claus, this intemperate attitude must stop if you wish to have a fruitful meeting this afternoon that suits your business interests.”
I slugged from the bottle of gin and put the phone down.
Belching exuberantly, I cut him off. He looked really vexed by that point. Then I crossed my legs over like Sharon Stone in that film Basic Instinct. Trying to get the charm offensive on the go. But the board all winced with shock and repulsion.
“Mr. Claus, don’t do that again! Now, we’re here to discuss the nature of our involvement with Santa Claus Christmas Enterprises Limited. and the concerns of investors and wholesale suppliers in regard to…”
He prattled on some more about dividends, asset allocations, diversification, equity, mutual funds, hedge funds, interest, portfolios, active management, capital gains, corporate bonds, annuities…
I really couldn’t understanding a fucking word he was on about.
Then I realised I’d drunkenly said that by mistake, with the board all sitting there staring at me unimpressed. To lighten the mood I dropped a clanger from my backside. I started to quip “Better out than…” when the alcoholic blackout kicked in.
There’s no other information available about what happened.
All I know is a came to in a seedy, low budget motel in one of the roughest suburbs of New York. Surrounded by empty bottles of beer and gin, the room was partially on fire and the fire alarm was blazing.
“Uh!?” I mumbled.
I got up, slugged from a bottle of vodka, and partially dressed. It was time to leave. Santa knows when he’s outstayed his welcome. I got on Uber and, Christ almighty, by some goddamn coincidence it was that one eyed bloke again—the lesbian.
He took one look at me and went, “Oh, fuck that!” And he flipped the finger at me and drove off. “GODDAMN LESBIAN!” I bellowed after him, the dust and litter billowing around me from the speed of the taxi hurtling away.
I stood there in the street. I didn’t even know where my passport was.
Heading back to the motel room, now heavily ablaze, I found my phone. Slugging from my vodka bottle, I called Markus (my head elf) and commanded him to come and pick me up via our factory helicopter.
And with that, I went out into the streets of New York to eat a burger and await my rescue. I was also able to rob several people during the wait.
Then I was mugged and lost the watch I’d stolen. Then I passed out drunk to the sound of police sirens wailing in on me from all directions.