197 Days


On the one hundred and ninety-seventh day of Christmas, we dumped the egg nog in the river and sent out a lynching party to kill Santa.
“We’re sick and tired of Christmas!” we shouted over the carols blaring from department store speakers.
“One hundred ninety-seven seals clapping!” went the chorus, and began to gleefully count back down to the damn bird in the tree.
I thought I saw Santa on the streetcorner, but it was a bell-ringer for the Salvation Army.
We pulled down his pants and shoved the bell up his ass.
His screams were music to our ears.

Mall Santa


Yeah, I punched a mall Santa in the face.
Guy had it coming. He was drunk and falling all over himself.
Plus, it was July.
That drunk bastard should be up at the North Pole, making toys.
Instead, he’s making faces at the kids and puking on himself.
There’s enough of that in December, but I won’t want to have to see this crap in July.
Who do you think makes all the fireworks for the Fourth of July? he drools.
The Chinese, I say, and I punch him again.
Santa goes down, and I take his sack of fireworks.



Okay, so you got a bunch of calendars for Christmas and you don’t know which to use when the New Year rolls around, right?
Well, you could use them all, but that would cover all your walls. And windows. And floors. And ceilings. And-
You get the point.
On the other hand, you could use just one,. But when someone comes over and sees you’re not using their calendar, they’ll say “You’re not using the calendar I gave you for Christmas? I thought you liked puppies!”
Well, I do, but hey – check out the puppies on Miss January. Oh, momma.

Wrapping Paper


When you’re done unwrapping your gifts, what do you do with the wrapping paper?
It’s going to end up as landfill, you know. Even if the paper was recycled, it’s going to end up in a landfill now.
All sorts of bright inks, shiny paper… it’s going to last a long time in those landfills.
I know someone who wraps their gifts in biodegradable newspaper. Another puts the gifts behind a closed door that gets opened to “unwrap” them.
But you giving me a blindfold and making me put it on, well, does this mean…
Is that a gun?

First Christmas


We were heading back to the office when we blew a temporal stabilizer and had to drop back into the time stream for repairs.
“It’ll take at least an hour,” said Murphy.
It’s been six.
While we’re waiting for the system to reboot, we broke out the emergency rations and had ourselves a Christmas Dinner right there on the prairie.
“I guess this is the first Christmas dinner,” said Jones.
“Yeah,” I said. “A million years before Christ was born.”
We toasted to our health with Tang, finished the meal, and bundled up the trash before checking on Murphy’s progress.

Weekly Challenge #88 – Christmas


Welcome to the eighty-eighth Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
The topic this week was selected by Santa Claus.
It’s Christmas
The excellent theme music is by Guy David

Which were the best stories in Weekly Challenge #88?
Zack from MothPod and Shameless Plugcast
Terry from Old Cootcast
Guy David from Guy David dot com
Yxes from PodMafia
Caleb from Black Tie Martini Club
Laieanna from HodgePodge Point
Tom from Footnote
Santa Z
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):


The Holiday is here to celebrate Christ our Lord.
The one day a year that I am not ignored.
Gone are the cold streets, cold nights, and cold gazes.
Replaced by warm seats, warm lights, and warm faces.
The shelter is aglow in the radiance of this fuss.
For the night that I’m here, I’m home for Christmas.
Sleep now comes as it has in the past.
The sad fact about moments is they that never last.
The night begins to fade and so with it the memory.
As I return to the streets to be lost in the reverie.


Let it Snow!
I stared at the snowman, tiny black dots for eyes, what looked like a carrot for a nose. A shabby hat on his head and old scarf around his neck. He was surrounded by a blanket of a snowy substance and he had tree branches for limbs.
With a quick wave of my hand it began to snow, a snow that was heavy at first, but slowly dissipated to nothing. Once more I waved my hand and the snow began again, only to dissipate slowly. A lovely site, simply lovely.
I quickly covered the globe in tissue, carefully making sure the glass ball was secure and protected, then lowered it into the box and wrapped it in Christmas paper.
On the card I wrote; from your secret Santa, let it snow.


There was a suspicious red stain on the snow. Santa was face down on the ground. �Who murdered Santa�? asked the voice of the grey man in the blue suit. The rain deer quickly hid his paws and tried to look sheepish. �I don’t know� he said. �Well, someone must have done it since this sort of things don’t happen by mistake. This universe is just too darn organized for this sort of shit to happen by mistake� said the greyhound. �Say what?� asked the rain deer, holding his paw to his ear. �Caught you red handed� said the constable.


He loved Christmas! Seeing her wrapped in that big red bow, he knew why he loved opening up presents. As he reached up to untie the bow, he heard her giggle, then he heard her sigh. His eyes got as big as saucers as he watched the bow slowly drop to the ground. Now she stood there with just her Santa hat, and a sprig of mistletoe. Smiling, he moved the mistletoe to rest on her belly, and bent down to give her the best “under the mistletoe kiss” she had ever had. Merry Christmas to all, and good night!


The old man in the Santa costume sat at the end of the bar.
The slow gin was doing its work,
so that even now his memories were little more than a blur.
If he could drink enough he would not feel guilty
until tomorrow when he again became sober.
Out on the street an empty kettle swung from a tripod,
while the first flakes of new snow fell from a black sky.
This Christmas a small child went to sleep hungry and then awoke
to an empty stocking hung at the end of the bed.
Life is not fair.


Self inflicted gunshot fatalities always peak around Christmas time. Some think it�s Seasonal Affective Disorder, some think that inability to live up to the idealized Madison avenue version of Christmas leads to terminal depression. But the real reason is that the elves have too much free time.
Their goal is to finish toy production by the end of November in case there are delays. When there are no delays they have most of December off. They grab Santa�s naughty list to find the ones who don�t believe and exact their yuletide vengeance. �Ho ho ho, mother fucker!�
Elves are assholes.


“This meeting is to discuss disbanding the Elf Exchange Program.
Injury and dismemberment rates have risen significantly in the human
“Your accusations are an insult! Where’s the proof?”
“Here’s documented cases of injury, including eyes lost, for improper
use of the bow and arrow.”
“Girls have rashes from the nature jewelry.”
“They’re made of poison ivy! And a huge number of defective toys are
leaving this shop, damaged by troublesome fairies that accompany you
Wood Elves.”
“Your lies will bring upon a war of the Elves!”
“Try it, Windtree. We have the fat man on our side.”


In the 7th grade I became fascinated with photographer. I talked my mother into letting me setup a darkroom in the back bathroom. As Christmas approached I made a list of possible stuff that a 13 year old needed. On Christmas day to my horror I found under the tree 30 feet of pine 1x12s tied up with a bow. How was I going to explain this to my friends at church that morning? They gave their condolences. For 40 years those shelves were used for a 1000 different purposes. When my mom moved to Arizona she took the shelves with.


The elves, man, it was the elves.
They were just too expensive.
So, I got rid of all of them and went with some outfit based in China.
Then I farmed out the communications and support work to a call center in India.
Delivery went to UPS. Fedex and Airborne just couldn’t compete.
I filed for an IPO, make billions on it.
Reindeer? Hell no. Lear jet.
Venison sausage, man. Good stuff.
Then that shit with the Chinese toys happened.
By then, I was long gone. I was on Aruba, living it up.
Natalee Holloway?
Never heard of her. Honest.

Drummer Boy


I played my drum for him.
I played my best for him.
Did he like it? Did he smile?
No. He cried! He cried like a shrieking pig!
Why the hell was I playing a drum for a kid in a barn, surrounded by goats and camels and rats?
You don’t play drums for babies… you shake rattles. You pluck strings. Or play a flute.
You make goo goo noises in their faces until they clap and laugh and smile.
Stupid baby.
Probably won’t survive the night, anyway.
Hey, nobody’s watching the gold that old fart brought.
It’s mine! Sweet!