Category: My stories

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Some people like peppermint candy canes.
I do too. So I bought a dozen.
Then I bought a dozen Oreo-flavored candy canes.
And then some Swedish Fish ones.
I figured I should sneak in some Red Hots canes.
They look like peppermint, but they’re hot.
And the bacon ones look like them, too.
After that, I kinda lost my mind.
Wasabi, Chicken, Pickle.
Although Pickle is actually kinda good.
Clam isn’t.
I put these all in a basket and left it out in the breakroom.
Unlabeled.
So, take your pick. Try your luck.
Everyone’s a winner.
Unless you get clam.