After Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer got the job of leading Santa’s sleigh, he got invited to all of the reindeer games.
Especially with the does.
Pretty soon, there were red-nosed fawns all over the North Pole.
And all of their mothers sued Rudolph for child support.
Rudolph spent a lot of time running. And drinking. His navigation skills went completely to shit.
Santa got fed up with the B-list animal celebrity crap, and he mounted some running lights, a GPS tracker, and flight radar on the sleigh.
Rudolph shot himself, and he ended up in a batch of venison jerky.
Category: My stories
Santa’s Birthday
When is Santa’s birthday?
Technically, he doesn’t have a birthday.
Most years, they pour him out of the cloning tank around January.
It all depends when the previous copy keels over from a heart attack from the stress and all those damn cookies.
Because, let’s face it… that fat bastard isn’t going to win any fitness awards, right?
Once the job’s open, they pour out the new Santa and brainflash him with memory RNA and hypnosis tapes.
Birthday, Clone Day, who cares? As long as he lasts until Christmas and hands out a bunch of gifts, nobody gives a shit.
Write letters to Santa
Why do kids write letters to Santa Claus?
Because he’s deaf. Can’t hear a damn thing.
No point in having a phone line.
As for email, there’s a group of elves who print out emails and then bring them to Santa.
As for how he reads letters in different languages, he’s got elves who can translate them for him.
And computer network elves to hack global databases so he can find home addresses, whether they’re a boy or girl, and if they’ve been naughty or nice.
Or rich. Because, if they’re rich, they can buy that shit for themselves, right?
Cookie Contest
Cedar Falls used to hold a Christmas Cookie contest every year.
Tom Peterson rigged up his 3-D fabricator to print cookies.
He loaded it with dough, and he printed out a batch of intricately-woven cookies that looked like crystal spiderwebs.
Ten minutes in the oven, and they were ready.
Everybody who tried his cookies said they were amazing, and he won first prize.
Later, Tom clutched his stomach and moaned.
Seems that he didn’t clean out the toxic epoxy compound from the printer before he put in the dough.
The survivors now just decorate a tree in the town square.
Santa Yoga
Santa’s really into Yoga these days.
Last year, he came back from his delivery run, and he went through the leftovers in his sack.
The last thing he pulled out was a Yoga DVD.
So, instead of just sitting on his ass watching porn and yelling at Mrs. Claus until November or so, he’s got his yoga mat and a 65-inch flat panel high-definition TV (another delivery he “lost” that year), and he’s stretching and breathing.
I hear he’s lost forty pounds. Had to get his suit resized.
That’s okay. This year, he’ll find leftover porn and gain fifty back.
Anti-Santa
If Santa’s up at the North Pole, who’s down at the South Pole?
Anti-Santa, of course.
Anti-Santa flies around the world in his anti-sleigh pulled by anti-reindeer and gathers toys from all the good boys and girls.
He fills up his sack, and then goes back to his anti-workshop where the anti-elves smash the toys into teeny tiny bits.
The next morning, the kids wake up to… nothing. Because Anti-Santa goes around just after Santa.
That’s okay, because it’s really your moms and dads who give you presents.
Unless you’re an orphan. Then you get nothing.
Well, maybe charity.
Maybe.
Specials
Back when all there was to watch was broadcast television, every series ran Christmas specials.
Even the ones that had no business running them, like shows in space or prehistoric times.
There was a Christmas special for Star Wars, despite being long ago and in a galaxy far away.
And it was horrible. The Star Wars special… all of them.
These days, people watch cable television or Netflix and Hulu and Amazon.
You don’t have to watch any of that crap.
Although, if you really wanted to, you could read a book or spend time with family.
Nah. What’s on?
A little something extra
Every year, Mommy tells me to be good so Santa will come and leave me presents.
“And so I can make that son of a bitch take a paternity test,” she mutters.
Yep. Santa left a little something one year.
In Mommy:
Me.
The process servers say the North Pole is out of their jurisdiction.
So, Mommy left out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.
Santa wears mittens, so you can’t get fingerprints, but you can get trace DNA from the glass.
“It’s a match,” says the analyst.
This year, forget the bike.
I’m getting Child Support.
Elf Cookies
Keebler would have you believe that elves make the best cookies.
And they’re right. Just not in the way they think.
You see, Santa Claus runs a massive elven eugenics program up there at his North Pole workshop.
He’s managed the toymaking bloodlines for centuries, breeding the best toymakers and weeding out the clumsy elves.
Clumsy elves are ground up to make elf flour for cookie dough.
They make the best cookies.
So, next Christmas Day, when you unwrap a present to reveal a broken toy or a lousy knit sweater, don’t cry.
Have yourself a cookie.
Isn’t failure delicious?
Radical Feminist Christmas Joke
The pastor asked the kids why God made Mary pregnant and had her give birth to Jesus.
One boy said it was to give His son to the world.
Another said it was so Jesus could heal the sick.
One girl said it was so Jesus could die for our sins.
The last girl said it was because God was too much of a chickenshit to go through nine months of pregnancy and ten hours of labor Himself.
“Goddamned feminists,” mumbled the preacher.
The kid kicked and screamed as a pair of burly rectors dragged the kid to “Time Out.”