Category: Christmas

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.

You can tell what time of year it is by the stupid dad jokes that mattress store commercials use.
The worst are during Christmas, because they all mention sleeping in Heavenly peace.
Only when Christmas is over do you get a week off from the inanity.
That’s when the end-of-the-year clearance sales take place.
They need to clear the inventory to avoid the tax liability or something.
Never mind that the stores never actually stock the mattresses.
They get them from a distributor and they take weeks to deliver.
While they sleep in Heavenly peace… with all of your money.

I gave each of the kids a stack of post-it notes and a pen.
“Write up your Christmas wishlists,” I said, and I left the room.
When they were done, I had them go outside and put the notes on the garage door.
“Put them in order,” I said. “From the one you want most to the one you want least.”
When they were done, I looked at the lists and nodded.
And the garage door started to open, scattering the kids and post-it notes as my wife pulled into the driveway.
I guess it’s sweaters and socks for everyone.

The truth is, elves are forest creatures, so keeping a bunch of them up at the North Pole is kind of a dick move on Santa’s part.
But with deforestation and the loss of habitat, elves really don’t have much else place to go these days.
And Santa does teach them a trade in toymaking and logistics, even if the pay is for shit and the benefits are nonexistent.
It’s not like Santa needs guards or fences to keep them in.
One step outside of the factory dormitory, and they freeze their asses off.
No wonder why they’re so jolly.

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.”

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.