Santa Column: The Catastrophic Christmas Day Report 2022

Santa's Christmas Day Report 2022

Another Christmas Day is upon on! It’s a time for celebrations, joy, and merriment! Santa’s social media efforts got him into the mood!

As in, a really foul-tempered mood. But that didn’t hold his Christmas spirit back for too long! We’re happy to report it all ended with happiness and joy!

Just to note, it’s Christmas Day so we’re censoring this edition of Santa’s column with [expletive deleted] to denote removed obscenities.

CHRISTMAS IS HAPPENING!!

Denial is [expletive deleted]. When Santa gets his mind stuck on some [expletive deleted] thing, he denies stuff. Like how I deny I’m a “bad” boss just because I [expletive deleted] pay wages so low my [expletive deleted] elves are constantly on the verge of [expletive deleted] death (i.e. keeping them on their [expletive deleted] toes).

Sure, this year I’ve been a tad [expletive deleted] disorganised. [expletive deleted]!

But you can’t deny I put the [expletive deleted] effort in (at times). I mean, Santa hired a goddamn orca to work at the factory for [expletive deleted] sake! And WHAT does THAT get ME in THE long-TERM!? 4.3% of the intended toy quota completed. 4.3%!! Not 4.4%. Just [expletive deleted] 4.3%!

On Christmas Eve I called Markus, my head elf, into my office.

I sat there in my easy office chair, the thing straining like crazy under my gargantuan mountain of a man beer gut and all. You could hear it creaking while it worked out if it could manage to sustain my mammoth backside. I eyed Markus ferociously, him standing there looking all timid and sheepish. Stupid little [expletive deleted].

“Markus!”

“Erm… yes, sir?”

[expletive deleted]!!!!!! AND [expletive deleted]!!! YOU [expletive deleted]!!!

“Okay, sir…”

OKAY!? OKAY!?! [expletive deleted]!!! [expletive deleted]!!!! [expletive deleted]!!! [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted]!!!”

Markus continued to look sheepish. His sheepishness just pissed me off something—that sheepy sheep is too much of a goddamn wave of negativity at times.

I sat there taking shots of vodka.

How the [expletive deleted] are you going to explain this to the world’s media tomorrow, Markus? Christmas is [expletive deleted] destroyed. And it’s your fault. All of it. Your fault.

I belched exuberantly. Markus shuffled his feet on the spot. I puked up on the floor.

“Erm… can I leave, sir?”

NO YOU CANNOT LEAVE, YOU LITTLE [expletive deleted]!!” I bellowed.

And with that, the chair gave out underneath me and Santa’s butt (and the rest of me) went plummeting down into the ground with the force of 30 nuclear bombs detonating. It was a massive gut wrencher of a fall.

Blimey!” I chortled.

But that fall… awoke something within me. From deep within, the remnants of the less morbidly obese, handsomer, jollier Santa from 50 years ago or something. The one who, on Christmas Day, would punch you in the face if you tried to get in the way of him delivering Barbie dolls to the little girls of the world. The one who’d drink so much goddamn whiskey left out for him across the world he was pretty much wasted within 20 minutes of setting off from the North Pole. The one who’d wantonly steal from the wealthy families he visited to sell their junk on eBay. That one! The BRILLIANT Santa of old!

“Markus…” I hissed through gritted teeth.

“Yes, sir?!”

CHRISTMAS IS ON!!” I roared with the fire of a thousand suns burning from within a volcano that, itself, was on fire due to a raging inferno of an apocalypse ignited across the world by immolation-happy maniacs with a penchant for burning stuff.

Sleigh Bells and Drunken Smells

“Look at it this way, Rudolph!” I explained to the reindeer as he lounged resplendent across the hay in the stables outside the factory.

“If you don’t get off your heroin addicted arse within the next sixty seconds I will personally thrash you with my belt with the power of a million maniacs ready and [expletive deleted] waiting to see the entire reindeer species splayed before THEM IN A HELLISH AND UNCOORDINATED KILLING FRENZY!!

Rudolph gave me one of those looks like he realised I was in a dangerously insane mood, so he scrambled to ready himself.

With no shame, he shot himself up right there and then for a hit.

You pathetic junkie [expletive deleted]!!” I sneered at him, while slugging vociferously from the vodka bottle I yanked out of my Santa pants.

Once the heroin was into his system, Rudolph was up, off, and whinnying at the other reindeer (most of whom were hungover to [expletive deleted] as well) to get them ready for the night ahead.

I’d fully dressed by this point, looking supremely handsome in my Santa outfit. The clean one I put on every Christmas Day. Although I did manage to puke onto it within 45 seconds of getting it onto my vast frame after one-too-many shots of gin.

Heading out back to yank the sleigh out of the garage, Markus cropped up with a big sheet of paper listing all the houses and locations to deliver the toys to.

“Sir, based on my calculations I’ve worked out you’ll be done by midnight with the array of toys we have this year.”

I looked at him funny. “Array?!

“Yes, sir.”

I slugged from a bottle of tequila and wiped my gob with my sleeve.

“What in the name of [expletive deleted] are you using words like that for, eh!?”

“Sir, I think you’re drinking too quickly for…”

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, nooo! None of that, you… [expletive deleted]! You’re not distracting me with that cactus, Markus.”

“Sir?”

“What?!”

“The er… the presents, sir.”

“What about them?”

“You’ll be done by midnight, sir.”

“Right! Well, that’s brilliant! Shortest worldwide journey in the history of Santa’s Christmas Day haul. Superb!”

“Sir, we must factor in that in advance of ninety five per cent of the world’s toy expectations still will not receive a delivery. The press will still want to…”

Ignoring the stupid little [expletive deleted], I staggered off to the toilet to relieve myself. But I realised the elves’ cesspit was on the other side of the factory. Markus was running up behind me with protestations as I yanked my Santa pants down and urinated everywhere, my big hairy Santa arse right in his stupid little elf face.

Oh… god!” He squeaked in his stupid voice.

What was that?!” I barked.

“Nothing, sir!”

You’re goddamn right!

I yanked my pants back up and started slugging from a bottle of Kahlúa I save for special occasions, as well as downing several giant cans of energy drinks.

“Markus!” I pointed at the elf, “Get all the presents in the sleigh!”

“Yes, sir!”

“We set off… IN TEN MINUTES!

“Er, sir, that won’t be physically poss…”

IN FIFTEEN MINUTES!

“Sir, that’s probably not doab…”

IN TWENTY *BELCH* MINUTES!

“It’s four in the afternoon, sir! We should set off at six, as per traditions.”

I dropped the bottle of Kahlúa and charged at Markus arms outstretched to throttle his stupid elf neck. With a squeak of dismay, he legged it one and scarpered off as I, drunk and a bit confused, lumbered off in the wrong direction.

I felt queasy. I wanted to puke in the Elves’ cesspit, my home away from home…

Delivering the 4.3%

The next thing I remember I was vomiting copiously by the side of the sleigh, one arm pressed against it to steady myself as I swayed about the place.

It was difficult to concentrate and I was a bit confused. I was also aware the elves, my stupid wife, and everyone else at the factory was there for the traditional send off for Santa into the night.

“Markus?!”

“Yes, sir!”

He popped out from the crowd enthusiastically and did a salute. I retched multiple times but managed to not vomit all over him, groaning in agony as my burning throat tasted the acidic onslaught of all that jazz.

“Jesus, I’ll be honest you little [expletive deleted] I’ve just come out of a blackout. What’s going on and where are we?”

“Erm… well, sir, it’s six now and you’re going to go and delivery the toys.”

[expletive deleted]… do I [expletive deleted] have to!? I just want to lie in bed and ride this one out I think. Santa ain’t feelin’ too good…”

I began stomping my feet up and down and grunting in dissatisfaction. My stupid wife then leapt forward and rushed over to me, giving me a grotesque hug and a smooch to my distinctly vomit-coloured Santa beard.

“There we go, snuggums!” She rambled, “Best of luck out there!”

I stared at her with the hatred of 33,000 angry wasps who’d just come out their hive to find a wasp-hating bigot was there to do them in, driving the wasps into an incandescent fury the likes of which wasp-kind had never seen before.

Then I threw up again. Then I took a long slug from a bottle of absinthe, then the vodka bottle, then the tequila, some gin, another can of energy drink, and I rounded that off with a casual sip of sherry.

“Okay… get me onto the sleigh, you, Markus, you… [expletive deleted]!”

The elves moved forward and, over the course of several minutes, hoisted, heaved, and tugged my fat arse onto the sleigh. I gazed out bleary-eyed from the driver’s seat, looking out of the bleary-eyed reindeer as they turned to stare at me with the dull 1,000 yard haunted look only the most hardcore addicts can entertain (or even comprehend).

“I know, lads… I know… [expletive deleted]… ok…LET’S DO THIS!”

I rose up, lashed out with a whip, and it cracked violently over the top of the reindeer. Panicked through drug and alcohol-induced paranoia, they rushed forward in a frenzy and mowed down the crowd of elves standing in front of us.

Looking back at the carnage behind me, I figured there were at least 50 deaths and I like a goddamn SOB madman.

Turning back to the reindeer, we were already up to 50mph.

FASTER!” I bellowed.

Up to 55mph.

FASTER! FASTER!

The reindeers’ hooves pounded into the snowy ground and we rumbled across the icy strip preparing to take off. “PLASTER!” I bellowed as the aftereffects of all that alcohol really made me feel a little at odds.

Then up ahead there was a polar bear.

“Oh… [expletive deleted]!! [expletive deleted]!! AVOID IT! RUDOLPH!”

Rudolph was also feeling the effects of heroin. In the sense he believed himself to be invincible and no goddamn SOB polar bear was gonna stop him this night. On we charged. The polar bear sat dead ahead staring at us. Bemused, at first, but then it got onto its hind legs and roared at us.

I flipped the middle finger at the cheeky SOB and then wrenched on the reigns, with the reindeer steering violently around the polar bear. Thus, with our precious cargo of 4.3%, we surged onwards until we plummeted straight down an icy ravine.

We’re stuck there right now as I type this on the phone I brought with me.

It seems a fairly predictable end to the year. But I least, stuck down here in the ice, I can slug from a bottle of Drambuie I save for special occasions. I consider it too sissy for the others too see me drinking, but it’s my favourite.

Markus will get us out. Rudolph may be panic-stricken and fouling himself with the other reindeer, and my big beer gut has jammed me stuck between the ice. Worst case scenario I’ll do like what that bloke did… hack my beard off with a penknife.

Make a film out of it later. Maybe… just maybe… the Santa Christmas Day tragedy in the ice ravine will cover our tracks and win over the world on the worst Christmas Day 2022 in history!

Dispense with some gibberish!

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