The elves wanted to explore diversity and different cultures, so Santa bought a menorah and lit the candles.
“Aren’t you supposed to sing something?” asked Blitzen.
“Shit if I know,” said Santa. “This writing looks like an army of chocolate-covered ants fucking.”
Santa put all nine candles in, the elves sang Christmas carols, and they all went back to work.
“Do you smell smoke?” said Twinkletoes.
Sure enough, the workshop was on fire.
The flames spread to the reindeer barn, the elf dormitory, and Santa’s house.
“Everybody gets wood burning kits,” declared Santa.
And they all froze their asses off.
Santa slides down the chimney, opens his sack, and puts the presents under the tree.
Then he picks up the presents sitting by the fireplace and stuffs those into his sack.
Back up the chimney, into the sleigh, and the helper-elf double-checks the inventory and flight plans.
“I know that business is bad, Boss, but did you have to add regifting to your services?” asked Twinky.
“Shut up,” said Santa, watching the GPS flash a new destination. The time display next to it flashes an unjolly red. “Fucking eBay.”
He cracks his whip, and the eight miserable reindeer take flight.
I work for a place that makes wreaths.
Year-round, we make memorial wreaths.
But during the holidays, we get a lot of orders for Christmas wreaths.
Sure, they’re just fancy flowers and branches and twists of wire, but each one gets a serial number and a chip in them that lets us double-check and triple-check they’re going to the right place.
Nobody wants to hang a memorial wreath on their front door. And the one time we sent a Christmas wreath to a funeral, well, this is why we now keep one or two extra wreaths in the delivery vans.
It’s hard to believe that Macy is gone.
Nobody in the room can believe it. Not even Sarah, who still believes in the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus.
“Someone needs to believe this,” I say, and I dial 1-800-BEL-IEVE.
It rings twice, and then: “What don’t you believe?”
“Macy is gone,” I say.
“MACY IS GONE????” shrieks the voice. “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
The shrieking subsides after a minute, and I hold out a cell phone emitting sobs and whimpers.
“Now do you believe that Macy is gone?” I asked the group.
“No,” said Sarah. “In fact, that voice… it sounds like Macy.”
Every year, he puts on a Santa suit, visiting dying children in the hospital.
“There are healthy girls and boys without toys,” he’d sneer, holding up an unopened train set. “Are you planning on being buried with this one?”
He went from bed to bed, filling his sack and leaving a trail of screaming children.
The next morning, while on the way to work, he stopped by church.
“Bless you,” said Father John, gladly accepting the toys and games for the gift drive.
Dr. Walters smiled and got back in his car, off for another day of rounds in Pediatrics.
Santa got stuck in my chimney.
He’s yelling for help.
I called the sheriff.
He told me to lay off the egg nog.
That’s how life goes in a small town sometimes.
It’s a nice place, though. Quiet and peaceful.
Until some old fat guy gets stuck in your chimney.
I turned on a flashlight and looked up.
Two black boots. Gigantic red ass.
“What am I getting this year?” I asked.
“A lump of coal if you don’t get me out of here,” he yelled.
Fuck him. Mr. Santa Fatty can wait.
I turned up my headphones.
Christmas comes earlier every year.
Stores put the displays and trees before Halloween.
That’s why the elves went on strike.
You see, they’ve been working without a contract for over a century now.
While the reindeer still only work one night, the elves still have to ramp up production faster and faster for these earlier holiday sales.
Faster turnaround means less time for maintenance, too.
More work accidents, drinking on the job – that kind of thing.
Santa didn’t pay attention to the growing discontent in the workshop.
The elves are building a bonfire.
Santa’s tied to a stake, screaming.
We put bandages on the wounds, but you can clearly read “Sinterklaas” in bloody red slashes through the gauze.
The wounds were deep, but not severe enough to kill him.
His breathing was ragged, moans of pain.
“Did you see who did this to you?” I asked the man.
His eyes remained dull and fixed as he coughed through his confession: “I did it to myself.”
He pulled a knife from his boot, dropping the bloody blade on the floor.
“Why?” I asked him.
“I’m bad,” said the man, “and he’s out of coal.”
Be good, little children.
On the one hundred and ninety-seventh day of Christmas, we dumped the egg nog in the river and sent out a lynching party to kill Santa.
“We’re sick and tired of Christmas!” we shouted over the carols blaring from department store speakers.
“One hundred ninety-seven seals clapping!” went the chorus, and began to gleefully count back down to the damn bird in the tree.
I thought I saw Santa on the streetcorner, but it was a bell-ringer for the Salvation Army.
We pulled down his pants and shoved the bell up his ass.
His screams were music to our ears.
Yeah, I punched a mall Santa in the face.
Guy had it coming. He was drunk and falling all over himself.
Plus, it was July.
That drunk bastard should be up at the North Pole, making toys.
Instead, he’s making faces at the kids and puking on himself.
There’s enough of that in December, but I won’t want to have to see this crap in July.
Who do you think makes all the fireworks for the Fourth of July? he drools.
The Chinese, I say, and I punch him again.
Santa goes down, and I take his sack of fireworks.