MERRY CHRISTMAS! Last time out, Santa was busy with Christmas carol singers. It was a beautiful and moving diatribe.

Now, with the holiday season mere days away, we’ve got our Christmas decorations up in time to celebrate Santa’s latest column!

Santa Goes Social

To distract the stupid wankers about to be emotionally destroyed by this non-Christmas… I’ve joined social media!

Yeah to be clear on this, Santa has managed 4% of the toy quota this year. Lots of screaming brats will be wailing away on the 25th December. The papers aren’t going to be kind to Santa…

I need to be on social media ready to defend myself! And when I say “defend myself” I mean I’ll be ready to goddamn verbally abuse and death threat everyone into oblivion! THEY WILL NOT KNOW WHAT HAS HIT THEM!

Anyway, I got all the main social apps downloaded, set up my profiles, got really bloody drunk on gin, and started shitposting like crazy.

Santa’s Seductive Selfies

Given my natural beauty, fame, success, and wealth the first thing I did was post an endless series of selfies into my feed. All sorts of self-adoring photos I really couldn’t quite comprehend how someone could be so handsome.

By lunch I was getting pretty pissed on gin, so my confidence was reaching new bounds of showboating. You name it, I was doing it:

• Selfies with my top off.
• Selfies of my beer belly.
• Selfies of my extensive gout.
• Selfies of my big Santa beard (vomit stains and all).

I also accidentally uploaded a picture of myself throttling Markus, my head elf, by the throat. Some of my followers seemed concerned about that picture, but I told them it was just a joke. But one of them put:

“if its just a joke why is there blood coming out of his nose”

And I told the little fucker it was FAKE blood. But the little bastard didn’t believe me! So I called her a:

“stupid spoiled brat and you won’t get any presents bitch!!!!”

And that’s when I got my first warning from Instagram about following community guidelines and the like. I passed out drunk soon after.

Millions of Followers

When I came to the next morning, stark bollock naked and draped over the the cooking hob in the canteen, I turned on my phone to look at my accounts.

Tens of millions of followers. Tens of millions!!

I was hungover to all bastard, eyes bloodshot crazy, but I swelled with pride and had a little cry about my beauty and brilliance. Realising that was a super sissy thing to do I decided to counter that move with a moment of manly macho bravado.

So I punched a hole into the canteen wall with my fist.

Then I puked copiously all over the floor. Then I started on the gin again, slugging from the bottle before mixing the drink with a bottle of flat fizzy drink from the fridge. I then belched exuberantly.

Nurse Doreen, our resident chef and nurse, was there cooking up breakfast for the elves. Wordlessly, she went about her morning. Battle axe women is no fun…

Through a haze of merriment, I returned to my social accounts.

A big bunch of my new followers seemed disturbed by my antics up to this point, accusing me of being a “fake profile”. So I went and got my account confirmed with Instagram and Twitter, with that blue tick thing next to Santa’s name.

This merely disturbed many of the woke, lefty, snowflake liberals who were following me. So I updated my profile descriptions to read:

santa official account. handsome, rich and successful. hear too tackle intolerant leftie’s and bring joy too the world bastard’s”

Those woke bastards were whining about my “verbally abusive” outbursts so I just went around calling everyone snowflakes and lefties.

Didn’t shut them up, so I hit the gin again to clear the hangover and then decided to do my first live stream.

Santa’s First Live Stream

Because I couldn’t figure out the live stream thing my temper really flared up and I smashed several more holes into the canteen wall.

Markus figured it out… I have him a tepid pat on his head as reward. He scarpered off looking goddamn terrified. Guess I just had that crazy 1,000 yard stare going on in my eyes or something. I get that sometimes.

Anyway, I slugged from the gin bottle and had more flat fizz as a mixer and started the live stream on Instagram. A few things happened:

1. Tens of thousands of followers and well-wishers began watching and pouring out comments like “We love you Santa!!” and “Merry Christmas” and there were many love hearts.
2. The watchers then realised I looked a tad ill with my bloodshot eyes and general grimace of expression and were asking if I was okay.
3. I belched exuberantly into the camera.
4. There was general silence from the followers.
5. Some dipshit put into the stream “lol santa looks like shit roflmao”
6. I started bellowing obscenities and threatened to shoot him with my bazooka.
7. Whipping out my bazooka (not a euphemism) I jammed it into the smartphone screen threateningly while bellowing abuse and death threats.
8. Once I calmed down lots of my followers were abandoning the live stream. The ones who stayed were accusing me of being “out of my mind”.
9. I slugged from the bottle of gin, gave them all the middle finger, and ended the live stream.

What I thought was an unqualified success, and the standard way I go about dealing with people, led to an outpouring of criticism across social media.

They were posting really nasty things about me!

Santa is “insane” and all these other horrible libellous, slanderous, disgusting claims about me. I saw red. And when Santa sees red, he never goes to bed.

Santa’s Trolling Frenzy

After the live stream went to shit I really lost it. Those bastard woke liberals ruin everything! In a drunken rage, I took to social media with a vengeance and began trolling everyone left, right, and centre.

Not politically, you understand, I leave the normal people alone.

Centrists can be a bit weird, but we usually get on. The right-wingers with their informal bigotry and confusion about everything is where I find a great source of strength—my brotherhood!

Out of my mind pissed I went off on the most berserk shitposting trolling frenzy ever witnessed. I even researched a bunch of new swear words, many in different languages, to threaten and offend as many people as possible in my thunderous verbal onslaught of attention seeking, self-pitying, and general drunken mania.

I probably got a bit carried away because by the end of the day I was banned from Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook. Furious, I took to TikTok but got banned almost immediately due to being drunk, naked, and obscene.

This just shows freedom of speech is being stifled.

It shows feminism is destroying society.

It shows everything is too PC these days.

Santa misses the good old days when he could be as horribly sexist and bigoted as he bloody well wanted. Drunk, I took to the factory’s tannoy system to opine over the good old days when I once called a woman a “bitch!!” and it didn’t result in an international meltdown.

Then I started getting really paranoid.

With freedom of speech destroyed… my anxiety went through the roof in terror at this degradation of social mores. I called an emergency meeting in my office, bellowing over the tannoy system:

“Markus! Bitch wife! Rudolph! Nurse Doreen! Emergency meeting my orifice, now!”

And, yes, I said “orifice” by mistake. I was seriously wasted by that point. Barely able to prop myself up. As I awaited their arrival, I pulled my pants back on, patted my massive beer gut, belched exuberantly, and leaned against the wall for support. I then vomited on myself.

Santa’s Emergency Meeting in His Office

Truth be told, I remember nothing from this meeting. Markus kept the minutes and protocols of my drunken rambling.

I viewed his notes the next morning. They went like this:

• Mr. Santa Claus desires to close his Christmas business and, instead, begin a new organisation based in guerrilla warfare.
  • To display his interest in this, Mr. Santa Claus ran around the room making gorilla noises at us. He also threw his faecal matter at Nurse Doreen, whom fainted in terror/horror/disgust.
• Mr. Santa Claus’s goal is to “wipe out the left” with an army of zombie Barbie dolls, harsh language, and general intolerance to show them “what’s for”.
• Mr. Santa Claus divulged he “bloody loves [me, Markus] you’re [me] my best mate you [Markus] are! *HICK*“
• Mr. Santa Claus concluded the meeting with a thunderous belch and then passed out on the floor.

And it was the sight of my big fat hairy arse that rounded off the meeting.

Hungover to all hell the next morning, my drunken plans seemed like way too much effort. I busied myself instead with drinking gin and bellowing abuse at my wife. After all, that’s what Christmas is all about! Am I right!?