Last time out, Santa graced us with news about his corduroy addiction. That was nice. This time there are much, much, much more pressing issues regarding the nature of a front door. May god have mercy on us all…
The Front Door of Dilemma
Bad news from Father Christmas land as Christmas is on hold for the time being whilst Santa fixes the front door of the factory. It’s what leads to the receptionist (although we haven’t had one of those since 1972). We use a commercial door of double door aluminium with an automatic sensor sliding mechanism. We had it installed in 1988. Santa loves that door. Santa loves that door like it was a BROTHER. But this week… the door broke. It was partially my fault for attacking the door in a drunken rage at 3am. I take some blame, but these things really should be built sturdy enough to withstand the temper tantrum of an idol such as myself battering it with my chubby Santa arms.
Well, anyway, when I saw it the next morning with shattered glass, dents, and one door hanging off its hinges, Santa dropped to my knees… and wept.
I commanded my workforce to then take an official day of mourning. We moped about the factory weeping, sporadically dropping to our knees and weeping some more, and Santa drank very heavily. It was only the following day that Markus, my head elf, suggested that we just fix the door. To be honest, that hadn’t occurred to Santa. So, we called in a commercial door repair man from the mainland.
He was flown in via helicopter and, as is the custom here at the Santa factory, I shot the bastard out of the sky with my bazooka. Unfortunately, the commercial door repairman was slain in the explosion. So, we called in another repairman. He was also slain in the subsequent explosion. We called in another three repairman, they all died in a hellish fireball, and in the end I asked my AI wife B2C AI Wife Production Centre Service Solution Platform Generator Ltd. what in the name of crap bags was going wrong. She told me I should stop “shooting the helicopters out of the sky” with my bazooka… typical feminist, always out to ruin Santa’s fun! I booted her down for the night and went off to have one of my dark, moody, pontificating heavy drinking sessions with Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer.
The Repair Man Arrives
After the piss up with Rudolph, Santa decided to gung ho ahead with my plan of getting a repairman sent in. Surely, any repairman worth his salt would eventually survive the explosion and helicopter crash, then fix my front door. Trouble with that logic is the company was sick of my slaughtering my way through their workforce and so refused to send anymore men out via helicopter.
Instead, they sent out a worker on foot… the bloody nerve!
The bastard arrived with frostbite and hypothermia, pleading for medical support, but instead Santa bellowed at him to get to work on the door. Santa stood watching him, his red raw hands fumbling with the door. Nurse Doreen suggested we give him a short of cortisol.
“What will that do, woman?!”
“Make him do the job better.”
“Okay… give him… TWELVE shots!”
“That could kill him.”
“MAKE IT ELEVEN SHOTS THEN!” Santa roared.
Eleven cortisol shots later and the repairman had abandoned fixing the door and was instead on a clear, deliberate bender. He was dancing and thrashing all over the place like a man possessed, frothing at the mouth and his teeth gnashing at anyone who came near him.
“This is the most blatant act of unprofessional I have ever seen!” I snorted at Markus.
So I rang the company who sent him and complained their underlings go berserk after 11 shots of cortisol. The manager said their staff members shouldn’t receive “any” shots of cortisol at all. Santa explained back that it was mandatory as the worker was also frostbitten. The manager asked to speak to the worker on the phone but Santa had had enough! Hanging up on the SOB, I had Kenneth the walrus gaffer bulldoze him over and we buried the guy’s corpse in the elves’ cesspit out back.
After hanging up on the manager, the guy kept calling me. Over and over. After five hours straight of it, when drunk on Drambuie, Santa finally decided to answer. The guy was very concerned for his worker, so I set the record straight.
“It’s okay, he’s dead and buried out back.”
There was a stunned silence on the other end of the phone. I explained thus.
“Look, I’ve got a large walrus called Kenneth who’s the gaffer of this joint. He flattened your guy because he was being a menace. We’ve buried him in a cesspit… erm… one of the elves found it so moving he shed a tear. Hope that helps.”
It didn’t help and the guy threatened a class action lawsuit against Santa, for which I added him to MY NAUGHTY LIST.
Enjoying Some Lovely Carrot Cake
The front doors were still broken, so I had Markus (my head elf) weld them together. We’re now using the factory back entrance as the new front entrance. I’m calling it the Back to Front Entrance (BFE) and will mercilessly thrash anyone with my belt who doesn’t use it (I announced that loudly over the factory tannoy system).
Santa then retired to my office quarters and I ordered some lovely carrot cake from the canteen for my din dins.
Nurse Doreen arrived 13 hours later with what she claimed was a “carrot cake”. It was a cake, for sure, but Santa made it clear he did not believe it to be a carrot one.
“This is not carrot cake, woman!”
“If you’re calling me a liar, that’s harassment under Antarctic employment laws.” Nurse Doreen grunted.
Santa had Markus (my head elf) fetch me the latest Antarctic employment law legislation book. Markus returned 13 hours later with a copy, having travelled all the way to the nearest town and back for the latest edition. It’s 30,000 pages of legalese. Santa refused to read it and instead roared at Nurse Doreen to reveal the true contents of the carrot cake.
“Garlic. We don’t got no carrots, Rudolph’s eaten them all.”
“So, what Santa just ate was some garlic cake?”
“Yeah. I put some tobacco in as well.”
Santa walked up to Nurse Doreen and breathed heavily into her face. She looked appalled, turned a funny colour, then keeled over onto the floor. With that nuisance resolved, Santa then had Markus, my head elf, order a 150 billion tonne of carrots into the factory. Mark my words. Christmas 2026 will be the year of Carrot and Garlic Cake, because that meal Nurse Doreen made me was one of the best I ever had!
