Santa has cancer.
He flew down to the Cleveland Clinic for treatment.
Left the elves in charge of things.
They know what to do. They’ve been through this before.
The old man gets chemo and radiation, loses all his hair and eyebrows and beard, forty or fifty pounds.
Glue on the fake beard and put on the wig.
Cover the burns with makeup, make sure the catheter bag is taped to his leg securely.
Everything sorted and labeled, RFID tags and GPS coordinates.
The sleigh practically flies itself.
Good to go, say the elves, and it’s off into the night.
Author: R.
All Lies
When I was little, I was told that Santa Claus didn’t exist.
Neither did the Easter Bunny or The Great Pumpkin. All lies.
Everything was a lie. Everything was just a corporate scheme to control me.
So I asked about Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and Valentine’s Day.
If all those other holidays are marketing fabrications, aren’t those too?
“We exist,” my parents said, “Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and The Great Pumpkin can’t send you to your room without dinner.”
And I was sent to my room without dinner.
I wrote a letter to Santa, asking for new parents.
Christmas M&M
It’s Christmastime, and that can only mean one thing:
Red and green M&Ms.
The other colors, like blue, brown and black, they get left out.
It’s just red and green for the holidays.
I know that Jews like to put out white and blue ones, but that’s your business, not mine.
I’m all about the red and green.
I’m also too cheap to buy the special bags with just red and green.
I buy big bags for Halloween, pick out the orange and black, and then for Christmas pick out the red and green.
Fuck the yellow and blue ones.
Santa Meteor is Coming to Town
Long ago, I worked at a television station as the IT manager.
We upgraded the weather system from a clunky hard-to-maintain box to a set of easily-configurable systems that ran Unix.
I knew enough to navigate the filesystems and do minor updates.
So, when I found the sprites directory, I realized I could play a few pranks.
With a few copy commands, I replaced the Santa sprite with a flaming meteor.
So on Christmas Eve, instead of Santa flying over the map, there would be a flaming meteor.
But the savvy weatherguy changed it back before they went on air.
The Parade
Every year, the town puts everybody’s name into a hat and they hold a drawing.
The first person to be drawn from the hat plays Santa in the Christmas Parade.
The next person to be drawn plays Mrs. Claus.
Then, the next eight people will play his reindeer.
We’re a fairly progressive town, so it didn’t matter who played the Clauses.
But people bitched about playing reindeer because they had to pull the sleigh.
Especially with a fat Santa and Mrs. Claus.
Eventually, we added wheels and an engine.
When a drunk Santa ran over the reindeer, we cancelled the parade.
Weekly Challenge #712 – The F Word
- Richard
- Lizzie
- Tom
- Serendipidy
- Norval Joe
- Tura
- Planet Z
RICHARD
The F Word
I was only doing my job!
And, look where it gets me – hauled up before the governors for gross professional misconduct!
All because some idiot kid reported me to his parents who – rather than check out the facts first – jumped to the wrong conclusion.
“Mr Smith, the child told his parents you were teaching the ‘F-word’ in class. What do you have to say about it?”
“Well yes, that’s what I was doing?”
“Seriously? Explain yourself.”
“Well, last week, we started with ‘A, is for Apple; then B, is for Ball…”
“And yesterday… F, is for Frog!”
SERENDIPIDY
Four letter words
Four letter words.
I hear them all the time.
Uttered during the throes of agony, and directed at me in anger and rage as I tear apart people’s lives and bodies, piece by painful piece.
I’ve been called everything… the B-word, the F-word, the C-word; but, they’re just words, and as the saying goes, ‘sticks and stones may break my bones, but words… will never hurt me.’
I will hurt you, with sticks, stones and far, far worse.
And let’s wait and see what you have to say.
Will you be screaming the F-word?
And by F, I mean, Final!
LIZZIE
Never say the F-word, her mother had told her when she was a child.
The day she boarded that plane, the prospective of enjoying two carefree weeks in the sun was all she could think about.
Halfway through the flight, a storm hit the plane. She felt like saying the F-word often, especially when the plane started diving uncontrollably. But she didn’t.
When the pilot managed to control the plane again and they landed safely, she stepped out of the plane, calmly and composed, raised her arms and yelled FUCK YOU! Then she looked up and smiled “Oops! Sorry, Mom!”
TOM
WTF
When I was young I never swore. My parents were major Catholics, so it never happened in my home. Now I just about punctuate every sentence with CF. Which is pretty accurate description of how reality is working out. Some say the uses of vulgar language is a sign of a lack metal capability. Without equivocation I can state it is my deeply held belief that in fact the f-word is the proper word. Show me a term with more impact and emotional strength and I’ll use it. The question is it consensual or is the work just fucking with you.
NORVAL JOE
Linoliumanda had said it. They flew back from the dance.
Flustered, her father frowned. “You Flew? Even for our family that’s a little far fetched. I fear your fellow is too friendly and I’m fairly certain he influenced you to forsake the festivities to find yourselves secluded in the fogginess of night.”
“Forgive my forwardness, Mr. Withybottom,” Billbert said. “Your fable is more fantastic than Linolumanda’s confession of flight. I find your daughter fair and fascinating. As a faithful friend, I would never be false or fickle with her.”
With a feeble smile, Linoliumanda said, “Enough with the f words.”
TURA
The F word
———
“How many F-words are there?” my girlfriend asked.
“Um, context?” I replied.
“It’s this crossword clue, ‘The mostest F word’, four letters. Begins with F.”
“That seems plain enough,” I said. “Why is obvious answer not obvious answer?”
“Not in this newspaper,” she said.
“Maybe the crossword compiler just got sacked?” I suggested.
“Hang on, I’ve got the second letter now. It’s also F. Makes no sense.”
“Ah,” I said, in my most smugly knowing manner. “You don’t read music, do you?”
She knows my ways and waited for me to drop the other shoe.
“FFFF!” I roared, fortississimo.
PLANET Z
When my wife goes to visit her sister, the cats only have me around.
Which is fine for Tinny.
She is a clingy cat and loves to sleep on me when I am on the sofa.
The problem is Myst.
She tends to sleep under the bed, and comes out to eat, poop, and scream to be let outside to roam.
She usually expects to go outside around when my wife gets home.
But seeing as how my wife is off at her sister’s, I get to deal with the little shit.
Guess who’s staying inside for a whole week?
The Last Place
According to the maps, the first place to celebrate Christmas is Samoa.
The last place is Howland Island, which is uninhabited, so there’s nobody to celebrate Christmas there.
Or notice that’s where Santa dumps any leftovers from his sack.
Modern companies like Amazon spend billions of dollars on research to develop advanced infrastructure.
But Santa’s a traditionalist. So, there’s a lot of error in production, logistics, and contact management.
Some kids who send wish lists don’t make it to Christmas.
Cancer. Genetic diseases. Accidents.
Sad, really.
Oh well. We’ll wait until his sled takes off before we grab the loot.
The Upgrade
My laptop says that a new version of FireFox is available.
I remember getting excited over new versions of software.
Fixing frustrating bugs.
Making the user interface easier to use.
I’d check TuCows every morning and every evening, like a kid waking up on Christmas morning wondering what was under the tree.
Now, I dread new versions of software.
What things that I use a lot will change?
How many extra steps will it take to do the same thing?
What pointless bells, whistles, and upsells will they add to the thing?
I click Upgrade, and wait for an error.
Proof Denies Faith
The high priest wanted him dead.
The governor wanted him dead.
So, they killed him.
Tortured and crucified, stabbed in the side.
His body, placed in a priest’s tomb.
Washed and sealed, guarded by soldiers.
His betrayer, hanging from a branch.
The deed is done.
Or… is it?
An angel, in the middle of the night, pushed the stone aside and ran off the soldiers.
The body is gone.
Dragged off by wild dogs?
Or did he walk away?
Risen, and alive.
I set the coordinates in the console.
And sit down in the machine.
The time-field builds.
History awaits.
Heavenly Peace
Silent night, holy night.
That’s what the humans call it.
I called a feast night.
Going home to home, looking for babies to eat.
Always searching for the perfect specimen, one that’s both tender and mild.
Just like the song.
The song says that only the holiest of infants is tender and mild, but season them properly, any infant will do.
Slow roast is better than boiling.
As long as you don’t mind the screams, it’s just for a minute at most.
The meat comes right off the bone.
I am so full.
I think I’ll sleep in heavenly peace.