Santa Column: Hopscotch and the Drunken Christmas 2022 Brawl

Hopscotch, Scotch, a polar bear and Santa at Christmas

Last week, Santa’s disastrous meeting with his stakeholders went down. It’s clear talking about this is now banned and we must never mention it again.

Instead, Santa wants us to focus on the happy times ahead. Let’s see what type of Christmas cheer he’s got for us this week.

Hopscotch (with the emphasis very heavily on the Scotch)

With 3% of the toy quota completed for Christmas 2022, and a handful of weeks until Christmas Day 2022, things are a tad behind schedule.

But that isn’t insurmountable. Anything is possible! Santa is a goddamn genius and knows exactly how to turn this around. Solution?


Think about it. You’ve got a beleaguered workforce afflicted with PTSD from years of abuse, trauma, murder, death, and destruction. How do you get these sad saps into money-making machines? Hopscotch!

And Scotch. The Scotch bit warmed the cockles of their hearts. The plan was simple:

  1. The elves wake up freezing, malnourished, and struggling with malaise.
  2. Nurse Doreen administers several shots of brandy into their system.
  3. They have a round of hopscotch.
  4. Santa Claus whips them mercilessly into action with his belt.
  5. Elves make toys.
  6. More Scotch is provided at lunch.
  7. More belt whipping.
  8. More Scotch.
  9. Belt whipping.
  10. Scotch.
  11. Santa goes off for a tipple, din-dins, and a nap.

We put this plan into action. It seemed to galvanize the elves. By the end of the first day, we were 3.1% towards meeting the toy quota! Markus, my head elf, gave me the news while I was at point #11—sitting eating spare ribs in my office, my big Santa beard covered in greasy sauce.

Outstanding progress!” I belched while talking with my mouth full.

Thank you, sir!” The stupid little bastard enthused.

I ordered the elves celebrate with an unlimited ration of Scotch and more hopscotch. Markus nodded and disappeared to administer the dose.

Later that night, while drunk and naked, I staggered off down into factory unit one. And by the gargantuan nature of my beer belly, it was bedlam. Those incompetent bastards! I found the elves drunkenly brawling! They were smashing each other’s stupid faces in with their tiny little elf hands. With a bellow of outrage, I hurled myself in amongst them and the brawl tumbled from factory unit one, to factory unit two, factory unit three, factory unit four, and then factory unit five.

Several walls were pulverised as the fisticuffs spilled from one unit to the next, my stupid wife running behind the tumbling mass brawl appealing for calm.

Markus panicked and set off the factory’s emergency alarm system. Sirens. Wailing. Red and black strobing lights. But nothing stopped the brawl!

We even passed Rudolph, passed out unconscious in unit three after overdosing on heroine and cocaine (he was fine, after getting his stomach pumped), and on the brawl went. We smashed through factory unit five, out into the warehouse, and then slammed through the perimeter wall surrounding the factory.

There the brawl continued unabated until the ice of the icy tundra beneath us gave out under the weight, friction, and heat our kinetic energy was creating. Ploop. The mass brawl plunged into the sub-zero waters and we froze into a solid block of ice. Stuck.

Luckily, my Santa head was sticking out of the solid block of ice enabling me to bellow my protestations continuously. But we were stuck. And we had to wait for Markus to turn up with the flamethrower to thaw us all out.

The Polar Bear Express

During the wait I threw up over my Santa beard and onto the iceberg we’d formulated. I looked down and could see the elves stuck in the iceberg below me, their eyeballs looking around in drunken dismay.

I wanted to bellow something about workforce-wide pay cuts, but my teeth were chattering like crazy so couldn’t.

I could see Markus in the distance running over with a flamethrower. Mrs. Santa Claus was ambling further behind him with a tray of freshly baked cookies.


She couldn’t hear me. Probably because of my teeth chattering bellowing. But the daft bitch couldn’t hear a thing if it was standing next to her bellowing it into her ears like I’ve done over the last 100+ years. Almost like she’s got hearing loss or something.

But that was irrelevant because then there was some growling noise from behind the Santa-elves hybrid iceberg. A low guttural noise. And then lumbering into view came a lone polar bear. It stopped to stare at me, getting up on its hind legs to sniff at my face and Santa beard protruding out of the iceberg. I was outraged and bellowed into its stupid white face.


Those bastards are a menace! Always wanting to chomp on your legs and consume your entrails. Many elves have been lost over the years to rogue polar bears munching down on them. It’s cost me a lot of recruitment budget!

You’ve cost me at least two thousands bucks in recruitment budget, your kind!” My teeth chattered at the beast while it sniffed at my vomit-soaked bushy beard and made a dissatisfied grunt. I bellowed at it, “You think you can get away with loss of Santa overhead, eh!? YOU ARE MISTAKEN!!”

Well, the polar bear munched down on my Santa skull and didn’t stop wrenching until I plopped right out of the iceberg. Then it proceeded to drag my off to its snow lair.

I could hear Markus in the distance squeaking in his stupid high-pitched voice “NO! STOP THAT! NAUGHTY BEAR!” and I knew it was time for a pay cut for that SOB.

As the polar bear was dragging me off, I found the whiskey bottle stashed in my red Santa costume and proceeded to slug at it to warm myself up. Didn’t want to get frostbite after all. The polar bear stopped at one point to look at me. “What the fuck are you looking at, dickhead!?” I sneered at it. It growled. “Oh, oh! You’ve got a problem with my drinking as well, have you!? Do you want a pay cut as well, polar bear!?

Anyway, I blacked out after a bit due to all the Scotch and all that.

The Polar Bear Aftermath

Well, I don’t remember anything. But Mrs. Santa Claus and Markus updated me once I was as snug as a bug in a rug back in my quarters. This is what played out:

  1. The polar bear dragged me to its polar bear lair for its polar bear cubs to dine on Santa (the goddamn nerve, right?!).
  2. Back at the iceberg, Markus thawed it out with the flamethrower and galvanised the surviving elves to rush off to save me.
  3. There was a momentary delay while the elves mulled over what the point of that was due to me being such a horrible, negligent bastard.
  4. Markus promised a 50% pay rise for all involved in the rescue mission.
  5. The elves rushed off together to save Santa, battling frostbite and hypothermia as they overcame the icy tundra to chase down the polar bear.
  6. The polar bear dragged the unconscious Santa into its lair, removed my right leg, and the cubs began dining on the aforementioned right leg.
  7. Markus and the elves burst into the polar ben den and engaged in bloody battle with the aforementioned polar bear.
  8. Many elf lives were lost, with decimation and decapitation being the polar bear’s plan of action.
  9. Markus used his flame thrower to ward the beast off, leaving it grunting to dine on the corpses of 50+ fallen elf comrades.
  10. The survivors grabbed my unconscious ass, and my missing leg, and dragged me back to the factory.
  11. The surviving elves dined on the cookies Mrs. Santa Claus had waiting for everyone once they’d returned exhausted, wounded, and on the verge of death.

I was disgusted with this story. “Those cookies were for me!!” I barked and had a good long sulk about that.

After a while I looked at my right leg, which I was informed Nurse Doreen had stitched back on after the polar bear previously amputated it. “Does it still work?!” I enquired, between sips of gin. Mrs. Santa Claus told me Nurse Doreen assured her that, once the gangrene wore off, it’d probably be useable.

“Christ! It stinks!!

“That’s possibly because you’ve fouled yourself, sir.”

I glared at Markus and he averted his gaze and backed away. And I lay in bed seething while slugging away at a gin bottle. I was livid. LIVID.

Belching exuberantly, I commanded everyone to get back to work. Mrs. Santa Claus, a clearly stoned Rudolph, and the elves involved in my saviour shuffled out of the room. Markus timidly stayed behind, shuffling on the spot.

What is it, you little bastard!?

“I promised the elves a fifty per cent pay rise, sir.”

I glared at him with icy disdain.

“Sir, many lives were lost in order to save you…”

Snorting haughtily I took a big long slug of gin. Laying there in bed I mulled it all over. I waited 30 long minutes, having a bit of a nap halfway through, while Markus waited patiently. Finally, I reached the mammoth conclusion of the genius business contemplations my ilk must summon from within their steely might.

“One per cent.”

Markus ducked his head in respect and backed out of the room. Thus, this was the tale of how embattled elves were slain and lost in the name of a 1% pay rise.


  1. No one could write this stuff! It must be true.
    Still, it does not seem like the toys will be ready in time.
    Unless frozen vomit makes a great gift, … hmmm… remember Pet Rock?
    Pet vomit! OR Pet Tundra Chunks. Christmas is saved!


Dispense with some gibberish!

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