Category: Christmas

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. “I was already printing toys and dolls, so why not get some kids off of the transplant waiting lists?”
He shows me a printer stacking layers of cartilage to form a nose… then a wide-mouthed face… and a body… and a drum…
“Crap,” said Santa. “I sent a Nutcracker template to the wrong printer.”
He hit Cancel and tossed the floppy homunculus into the trash.

I live in Texas. along the Gulf Coast.
It snows maybe once every few years, but never really enough to accumulate.
I can’t remember the last time I made a snowman.
It was probably that year when there were icicles dangling from the traffic light lines.
There was enough snow that day to snarl things up pretty fierce on the roads.
But the next day, the sun was out, and it was all gone pretty quickly.
If I had known, maybe I’d have built a snowman.
But I’d rather stay inside, make hot cocoa, and stay warm under a blanket.

Timmy sat in Santa’s lap and asked for world peace.
“Are you sure?” asked Santa.
“Yes,” said Timmy.
Santa nodded, patted Timmy on the head, and told his elf helpers to start Plan Omega.
A strange purple mist enveloped the world.
When it dissipated, all life was extinguished, and the ruins of civilization sat as a memorial to one child’s unwise wish.
Santa walked through the wasteland, sack full of toys slung on his back, admiring his handiwork.
“Ho ho ho!” he shouted, his booming voice echoing off the buildings.
A cockroach scuttles by, and Santa stomps it flat.
Squish.

I used to demand lots of toys for Christmas.
So, my parents read me “The Gift of the Magi.”
That’s where a woman sells her hair to buy a chain for her husband’s pocketwatch, and the husband sells his pocketwatch for a set of brushes for his wife.
“Her hair grew back, right?” I said.
“That’s not the point,” said my parents. “It’s the thought that counts.”
So, I thought about it a lot.
And I sold my dad’s pocketwatch.
I was going to sell my mom’s hair, but she caught me trying to cut it off while she slept.

Every year, we put up a Christmas tree.
Even though we have enough ornaments with which to decorate a tree, we always buy more.
A new set of shiny balls… another box of tinsel…
And lights. So many strings of lights.
From bulbs to LEDs, simple lights and patterned lights.
We have enough lights for an airport runway.
If you strung all of the lights end to end, they would reach the North Pole.
So, we try it. And sure enough, they reach the North Pole.
“Turn those off,” growls Santa. “I’m trying to sleep.”
And he closes his blinds.

Every year, Fat Freddy Lawson would dress up in his Santa costume and go out to the park, spreading Christmas cheer.
However, after the heart attack, Fat Freddy went on a diet and exercised, and he wasn’t fat anymore.
The costume hung loosely on him, and stuffing his pants with a pillow didn’t look quite right.
So, he gave his costume to Fat Tony.
Fat Tony looked the part, but he got a little too playful with kids in the park, and the cops arrested him.
Freddy made a note to teach the next Santa how not to get caught.

I remember when a little deaf girl sat in Santa’s lap, but Santa didn’t speak sign language, the girl mumbled incomprehensibly, and she was signing too quickly for her mother to translate.
“Can she just write it down?” said Santa, handing a pad and pen to the girl.
She drew a heart.
So, Santa told one of his helper elves to stand still, and he punched the elf in the chest and tore out his heart, showing it to him before he died.
“Will this do?” said Santa.
The girl shrieked and cried.
“Well, I understood that,” said Santa. “NEXT!”

Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus.
Lock the windows!
Pull the blinds!
Bar the doors!
Turn off the lights!
Santa knocks on every door, and he tries to peer in through the windows.
“I know if you are sleeping,” he says. “And you’re most certainly not.”
Long ago, we all bricked over our chimneys and went to central heating.
No way that the fat bastard will get in through there.
That’s when we smell smoke.
Did he leave a flaming bag of poop on the doorstep? That kidder!
And then, we see the flames get higher… and higher.