After Santa’s efforts with the Stray dog and gigantic teddy bears, he’s now back! This time around it looks like he’s finally trying to address his longstanding personality flaws.

Good on Santa. That may be a woke thing to do, but if he pulls this off it’ll only ever help his profit margins. Go woke, go broke? Not on your nelly!

Hiring a Personal Branding Consultant

Santa has been aware for some time the public image of me, Santa, is somewhat negative. For some reason, “they” now view me as a monstrosity—an evil SOB tyrant, drunk senseless 24/7, and ruling with an iron fist. I resent that bastard nonsense! So, Santa bought (“hired” as the terminology goes) a personal branding consultant called Monica.

Monica arrived yesterday at the Santa factory here in the North Pile. She arrived by private jet. I was very impressed by that! She swaggered out of the jet, but was immediately under attack from several polar bears whom viewed her as a viable food source. Santa thought that was hilarious and I was left roaring in laughter as she panicked and ran about, the monsters chasing after her.

Markus, my head elf, soon sorted that lot out by firing bazooka shots into the air. The polar bears legged it one.

Monica immediately chastised me for laughing and flagged up that that’s one of the reasons people now don’t like Father Christmas. This thing called a lack of this curious extremity called… “empathy”.

I had to look up that word on my phone.

The definition disgusted me to such an extent Santa puked all over the floor. Seriously, they had to drag me off to the infirmary and Nurse Doreen gave me a shot of brandy and strawberry lollipop because Santa had been such a brave, big boy.

But that nagging woman, Monica, was on my case again!

“I’M NOT PAYING YOU TO NAG ME, WOMAN!”

She responded by explaining she, in fact, is being paid to nag me. She calls it “corrective behaviour” and that I, Santa, should attempt to be “nicer“. She highlighted nice things about nice people including niceties such as (and she gave me this list in a little pamphlet):

• Saying nice things to people
• Not being a drunken, lecherous prick
• Seeking psychiatric assistance for an obvious narcissistic personality disorder
• Doing nice things for people

The list left Santa in a coma. I was in it for three days in intensive care, Nurse Doreen hooking my veins up to life support brandy drips to get me through the horror. This… is my brave story.

Santa’s Niceness Coma

Santa had some mental lucid dreams during the coma. In one of them Santa was surfing. “SURFS UP, DUDES!” I kept bellowing as I surfed it up to the sound of The Beach Boys and touring off along the beaches of Sarasota, Florida, roaring at women in bikinis and getting jealous of buff beefcake men with chiselled jawlines. This dream went on for some time and eventually I started a rave with some great white sharks and a turtle. We were dancing it up a notch to the Bee Gees and it was some bangin’ stuff. Honestly, those sharks can strut some funky stuff when they need to.

Most of the dreams involved surfing. Is there something my mammoth Santa brain is trying to tell me?!

Mrs. Santa Claus (who divorced me last year) was there, too, nagging me that I’d “get a chill” or be “eaten alive” by the sharks unless I returned to shore. I roared back to her to quit her nagging. Honestly, even in a coma feminists are there to spoil MY fun.

Anyway, what transpired over time is the brandy drip and Santa’s sheer, relentless, indefatigable lust for life (and general brilliance) brought me out of the coma and back to a surfless reality. This was most disappointing.

Santa, groggy as all hell and splayed out on an infirmary bed, looked up at Nurse Doreen. She said, “How are you feeling?”

I was extremely drunk from all the brandy flowing through my veins, so began chanting the can-can beat and tried to get up to jive along to it. Then I demanded to go surfing Markus, Nurse Doreen, Kenneth the walrus, and Rudolph had to pin me down to stop me from getting up to strut. My bellows of objection continued for some time.

Anyway…

Santa fired Monica for putting me in a coma. I refused to pay her service fee and left her a dead nasty review online rubbishing her PATHETIC skills. This is it.

“moniker is a USELESS AND ENCOMPETANT WOMAN and left me in a COMA if i cud give her ZERO STARS OUT OFF FYVE i wud do JUST THAT. AVOID AT ALL COSTS”

She sent me a message complaining about the review and that it was “defamation” and I told her to piss the hell off.

Santa’s Empathetic Odyssey

The coma gave Santa a reckless new lease of life. Dunno why, just being out of it like that for days, on the verge of death, made me realise just how FRAGILE life can be sometimes. In the days after I upped my drinking and began firing my bazooka wildly into the air for giggles.

I was warned by Markus, my head elf, that I was causing extensive damage to the factory and should, perhaps, reconsider if that was a good idea. I would’ve BLOWN HIM TO SMITHEERENS, but I’m a reformed Santa. The coma has… has it taught me this “empathy” lark?! Because for certain Markus would’ve been dead as a doornail two weeks ago had he issued that SLANDER against mine name. Curious. Very curious indeed.

Pissed out of my mind, Santa staggered off down to the infirmary to chat to Nurse Doreen. She wasn’t there, so I lumbered off to the canteen. She was there cooking up instant noodles for the elves’ lunch break.

“WOMAN!” I bellowed into her face.

Nurse Doreen took a step back because of the alcohol breath reek.

“Yes?”

I then demanded she perform an empathy test on me. Santa must admit that, at this point, I was having an anxiety attack about it and was near enough to a nervous breakdown. I don’t want to rebrand! Successful Santa, the business magnate you all know and worship, built an empire on CRUELTY, exploitation, and devious tactics.

“Get the empathy out of me, woman!”

“Mr. Father Christmas, that is…”

“GET IT OUT OF ME! I need… an EMPATHY EXORCISM!” I bellowed into her face.

I passed out drunk after that, waking 48 hours later strapped to a bed with pseudoscience medical professionals around me chanting conspiracy theory slogans. Well, next week I’ll update you all on how that went! Wish Santa luck. Christmas depends on it!