Santa’s Nice List was growing.
His statisticians showed him the chart.
“What about the Naughty List?” he asked.
They ran the numbers… and it was growing much faster than the Nice List.
When Santa did the analytics, he found that when normalized for population growth, it was actually shrinking.
And people were moving from the Nice to Naughty at an increasing rate.
Santa needed to do something quickly.
“Poison the lumps of coal,” he ordered.
Santa went back to his office and looked at his Nice List.
His own name was gone.
“On second thought,” he said. “Cancel that order.”
Category: My stories
Santa handles the mail
Santa’s elves read the mail, entered it into the system, and flagged anything unusual for the big guy’s attention.
Dying kids got their wishes sent to the Make A Wish Foundation.
Death threats went to the FBI, and the sender went on the Naughty List.
Appeals to get off of the Naughty List went to Legal.
Santa tried to develop an AI system to process all of the incoming correspondence.
But it never quite had the accuracy of his squadron of mailroom elves.
“It’s the personal touch, I think,” said Santa, and he went out for a round of golf.
Twenty-three and Santa
Santa doesn’t remember his parents at all.
Some say he was left abandoned on an ice floe and set adrift, ending up at the North Pole.
Others say he used to be an ancient Turkish saint.
Or some Norwegian hunter who was hit on the head too many times.
Santa ordered a DNA testing kit to find out.
Two weeks later, the results came back.
The elf in charge of his workshop read the report.
“It says you’re fat and happy,” said the elf. “Can we go back to work now?”
Santa always suspected that he was a Samoan.
Car alarm
I drive a truck that’s seventeen years old.
I can’t customize the alarm sound on it because the alarm just honks the horn over and over again.
For a while, it was a hassle, trying to differentiate the truck’s alarm from all the other alarms in the parking lot.
Now, people have fancy whoops and bleeps and blaps and even apps that silently warn them on their phones.
Which I wholeheartedly approve of.
Because, while their cars are performing some kind of Kraftwork concert, my truck is the last vehicle left that honks its horn, and I know it’s mine.
Madness
Robin Williams once said that we are all given a little spark of madness, and we must do everything we can to keep that spark from going out.
After he killed himself, I knew what I must do.
I must preserve his spark of madness.
With a few phone calls, I determined that he was going to be cremated.
I took a flight to San Francisco and hired a taxi to the crematorium.
With not a moment to lose, I climbed the roof and stood at the chimney.
And I breathed in as much of his madness as I could.
Kroger Lot
The grocery store parking lots are crazy the week of Thanksgiving.
Last minute shoppers, desperate for stuffing or green beans or some kind of spice they forgot.
Rolls! Dinner rolls! You forgot dinner rolls!
Fights over the last can of cranberry sauce.
Then, on Thanksgiving, they’re closed.
When they reopen, they’re crazy again.
Because nobody wants leftovers.
Then, they’re even crazier, because Christmas tree delivery trucks fill part of the lot with trees.
And then people trying to tie the trees to their cars or trucks.
It’s a madhouse.
So, fuck it. I just order pizza until New Year’s Eve.
George the Active Listener
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He was a good active listener, though.
Active listening is different from passive listening, because you’re not just saying “Uh huh” and nodding your head.
You’re repeating back key phrases and showing an interest in what they’re saying, prompting for more.
The other pirates would tell George their problems, and he’d listen, and keep the conversation moving forward.
Pretty soon, George learned a lot about his fellow shipmates and their lives.
He came to realize that they were all scallawags, brigands, and thieves.
You know, because they were pirates.
St. Amateur Night
It’s St. Patrick’s Day.
St. Patrick’s Day is Amateur Night for drunks. Stay away from the pubs.
Just like Valentine’s Day is Amateur Night for lovers.
Stay away from the restaurants. And flower shops.
Black Friday is Amateur Night for shoppers.
Stay away from the malls. Shop online, until the online stores crash, and you can’t go there anymore.
Christmas? New Year’s Halloween?
They’re all Amateur Night.
Every night is Amateur Night here.
Except one.
There’s only one night for the professionals: April Twelfth.
Nothing happens then.
Nothing that you know of, that is.
Nothing that we let you know.
Click Clack
Jack compulsively flicks his lighter open and shut.
Jane compulsively flicks a switchblade open and shut.
They do this everywhere: at the diner, at the bar, while walking on the street.
Especially when they walk on the street.
There’s a rhythm to it. They’re in sync.
Click clack. Click clack. Click clack.
All day long.
they took baths instead of showers so they could keep flicking and clicking.
Jack would refill his lighter.
Jane would sharpen her switchblade.
And then they’d flick them open and closed again.
Sitting there at the retirement home.
Click clack. Click clack.
All day long.
Poor Dan
At first, Dan kept saying “I cannot believe my eyes!”
Then, he’d say “I cannot believe my ears!”
Rarely did he say that he could not believe his nose, tongue, or skin.
I guess he didn’t smell, taste, or feel much.
It was when Dan said “I cannot believe my accountant!” that he was in trouble.
Dan was way behind in paying his taxes.
“I cannot believe my lawyer!” said Dan as he was dragged out of court and off to jail.
Let’s just say that his cellmate made sure that Dan believed that he was in jail.
Poor Dan.