Superman walked north for miles and miles until he was far from civilization.
Pulling out the green glowing kryptonite crystal, he hurled it as far as he could.
It landed in the middle of Santa ‘s North Pole workshop village.
“What’s this?” said Santa, as the crystal melted through the snow.
A massive earthquake rumbled the village, spears of ice piercing every building.
Countless elves and reindeer were killed and maimed, toys scattered across the tundra as the Fortress of Solitude formed itself.
Santa rebuilt his workshop five miles away and put Superman on his naughty list in indelible ink.
When Santa wasn’t flying around the world delivering toys, he was flying around and banging expensive hookers.
“Wow!” they’d say, seeing the world rush by. “This is great!”
Some of them wanted to drink champagne, others wanted to do lines of coke.
“Do what you want,” growled Santa. “As long as you do me.”
And they did.
After zooming around skyscrapers and under bridges and through the Grand Canyon, Santa would fly out to the deep ocean and push the hooker out of his sleigh so he didn’t have to pay them or take them off of his naughty list.
Every year at the Santa Convention, the “Real Santa” delivers the keynote address.
It’s usually just the winner of The Best Santa Claus Contest giving advice on how to be a great Santa, or about some special Santa Moment he’d had.
But one year, it was the actual Santa Claus up there.
The real goddamned Santa.
He rambled for an hour about how cold it is up at The North Pole. And Reindeer.
“I eat a lot of reindeer meat,” he growled. “Elves taste lousy.”
Nobody believed that he was the real deal, and he was never invited back again.
Sally was born on Christmas, so she felt like she was cheated out of two days of presents.
She never had a big birthday party because all of her friends were out celebrating Christmas.
“We’re Jewish, Sally,” said her mother. “We don’t celebrate Christmas.”
“But my friends do,” said Sally. “So they can’t come to a party. I’m stuck here with you and dad, and it sucks.”
Sally’s parents sent her to her room without dinner.
They’d forgotten to get a cake, Sally’s mom was a lousy baker, and, anyway, all of the stores were closed for Christmas, so there.
No, Jesus wasn’t crucified.
He died from autoerotic asphyxiation.
In between the sermons and miracles, he liked to have his apostles bind him up and hang him from the rafters.
Or he’d have them strangle him while he jerked off.
“Maccabee” was his safe word.
After the Last Supper, Jesus had himself strung up and dangled upside down in a closet.
But something went wrong. A belt slipped, and Jesus’ neck broke, killing him.
Everyone blamed Judas for the accident.
Ashamed, Judas ran off, strung himself from a tree, and killed himself.
No, he wasn’t jerking off at the time.
It’s a challenge, decorating the Christmas tree.
You have to do it just right.
You want to spread out the colors, so all the red ornaments aren’t next to other red ornaments, gold ornaments separate from other gold ornaments, and tinsel and lights evenly distributed throughout the tree.
But not too evenly. You don’t want the tree looking perfectly symmetrical.
It should look like a natural distribution of the decorative elements.
Not that chopping down a tree and sticking it in your living room, and then covering it with all sorts of crap is what I’d consider to be natural.
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Still, he had his moments.
Every Christmas, George put on a Santa suit and played Santa for the crew’s Christmas party.
They’d line up to sit in his lap.
“What would you like for Christmas, little boy?” he asked in a deep jolly Santa voice.
They’d ask for new boots, new swords, a pile of treasure, their own ship, or to retire as a barkeep with pretty wenches.
“Sorry,” George would say to them, “You’re a pirate, so you’re on my naughty list.”
George got beaten up a lot.
Some people leave out milk and cookies for Santa.
I helped Mom make chocolate chip cookies this year.
But I slipped in Ex Lax squares instead of chocolate chips.
Because, last year, when I was seven, I wanted a bicycle.
All I got were sweaters, socks, and underwear.
Despite sending him letters and being good, he kept bringing me the same practical crap every year.
So, I snapped.
Christmas Day, we all go down to the living room, and we unwrap presents.
Except for Dad. He’s still in the bathroom.
I guess he’ll need the new underwear Santa brought him.
There used to be a long winding trail to Heaven.
After a few centuries, a set of stairs were built.
Then, escalators with landings.
And finally, an elevator.
The problem with an elevator is that people push and shove to get on it.
Despite the fact that this was Heaven’s elevator.
You’re going to spend an eternity in Heaven.
What’s a few more minutes waiting?
You could always taken an escalator.
Or the stairs.
Or even the long winding trail.
So, God tore out the elevator, escalators, stairs, and the path.
And put in a greased pole.
God’s a dick.
Scientists are working on ways to 3D print body parts and organs.
Most of the research takes place at The North Pole.
“I get a lot of requests for new hearts and kidneys,” said Santa, showing off a renderbot that was stacking layers of cartilage to form a nose for a kid with skin cancer. “Sick kids make me so depressed.”
He lands on the hospital’s roof with his sleigh, and hands over a plastic cooler with the new organ to the surgical staff.
“I can’t wait for this to go retail,” said Santa. “I miss making dolls and toys.”