The elves have been whining about getting cable installed. What’s the big deal about cable? Sure, reception is improved, but it goes out all the time. And how many times can you watch Weekend at Bernie’s? The man’s dead. Those sunglasses aren’t fooling anyone. Either way, I ain’t springing for anything unless those tiny bums finish wrapping presents.
Reindeer have some virus and have been sleeping a lot lately. Mrs. Claus mixed some orange rinds and a handful of old echinacea capsules into their slop trough this morning, so I’m hoping that’ll help a bit. Donner’s been complaining of stomach pains too, but I told him to shut up or go try finding work elsewhere. If he thinks there’s a lot of jobs posted on Monster.com for flying reindeer with stomach pains that whiney fur bag has another think coming.
Guess what? It’s Geraldo at the door again. He’s trying to prove that I run some kind of polar sweatshop violating child-labor laws. I tried to explain that the elves are, like, 120 years old and haven’t been children since Geraldo himself was the son of a wee sperm in his great granddaddy’s testicles. No good. He called his studio truck over to our front door and I had to get Dancer and Blitzen to charge him. Who’s gonna buy his story now? Yeah right, Santa Claus himself beat up, Geraldo? No one’s buying, Gerry. Don’t even try it.
Those damn coal miners have jacked up the price of coal again. They do this every year. And they have me over a barrel. They know that there are more bad kids then ever. Any foul-mouthed little puke with their hair dyed like Eminem is getting an extra lump.
Got another of those heart-wrenching letters from a poor child: “…you don’t have to get me anything Santa, but could you get my mom a warm coat?” Sure, kid. Like you aren’t just playing the good-kid card to score yourself an XBOX. What, do people everywhere think I’m an idiot now? I’ve been around for thousands of years and the tricks never change. Santa ain’t buying, Timmy. You want a warm coat? Sell your body.
Got drunk on rum and eggnog and passed out watching Seattle’s Santa Claus parade. And let me tell you, man, that is one sorry Santa Claus parade.
I have to get the freakin’ ASPCA off my back. They just sent me another letter asking about the conditions for the reindeer, claiming I’m cruel to them by underfeeding. Hey, ASPCA! You think fat reindeer can get off the ground? They can’t, and you better believe me, because I’m the only person in the entire world who owns any flying reindeer. The thinner they are, the better they fly. If your kids want any presents this year, ASPCA, you’ll shut up. Just shut up, ASPCA!
Woke up with a bad hangover. I smacked the elves around a bit in the shop, had my way with Mrs. Claus. Then we passed out while watching Scrooged. That Bill Murray cracks me right up.
Guess what I did today? It’s funny. I always do this. I went down to the kitchen pantry to grab some shortbread cookies and guess what I find? You know it. My lousy Advent calendar. Scarfed 21 chocolates and fell asleep in front of the fireplace.
Watched A Christmas Story again. Man, the Ralphie kid cracks me up. I wonder what ever happened to him? I should check my list to see. Actually…yeah, actually, forget it. Who cares about Ralphie? What was I even thinking? Now…I do believe there’s an Advent-calendar chocolate waiting for me by the fireplace. To the fireplace!
Today Mrs. Claus and I did our last-minute shopping. The elves can hammer a mean rocking horse, but they ain’t so good at creating Palm Pilots from scratch. Note to everyone who wanted a Palm Pilot for Christmas this year: You’re all godforsaken, Star Trek-convention-haunting nitwits.
Well, I’m off, to hell with no-fly zones. Donner’s stomach pains miraculously disappeared today, and the elves finished up everything at the last minute. Well, mostly everything. Hope you weren’t expecting much, Nigeria!