Last time out and Santa tangled with a psychotically sentient Christmas pudding. This time out and he's (Santa) at it again with a bloody Christmas cracker of all things.
Whilst it's clear Xmas 2024 is off to a ropey start, based on his past performances we're 101% sure he'll get his act together. Thus, all the girls and boys will get Barbie dolls. It's the way it should be.
Consuming Jeff the Christmas Pudding and Other Radioactive Problems
Last week a radioactive Christmas pudding got my 2024 Christmas run off to a rotter of a start! Undeterred, I got Markus hepped up on amphetamines to stay up all night and catch the bastard. That he duly did! Once I got my hands on the Christmas pudding I throttled the bastard, called it a bastard, and then decided I was super hungry and had it flamed up and consumed with custard sauce and two bottles of brandy.
With Jeff dead, Santa (me) was free to get on with getting the Barbie dolls ready for Christmas Day. As is want to happen, though, a new dilemma arose.
Markus, my head elf, approach me one morning with a cement mixer. I was very hungover that morn. I soon realised (because Santa is a genius) he had a flipchart with an itinerary of stuff to do.
"Sir?" He squeaked in that annoying elf voice.
"WHAT?!" I bellowed at him, clutching my hungover head.
"Further radioactive leaks have transmogrified different produce. As I speak, there's a Christmas stocking holding the reindeer for ransom and..."
"What are his demands?!" I eyeballed Markus.
"He want's Rudolph's stash of heroin and then..."
"Give him the bloody heroin!"
"But sir, Rudolph will..."
"RUDOLPH... will... what!?" I eyed Markus haughtily.
"He will accept this offer graciously, sir! Next item. There's a mince pie preaching far-right conspiracy theories in the kitchen. Nurse Doreen wants to have it boiled alive."
"What theories?"
Markus checked his notes, "The Earth is flat, the Moon landings were faked, the Moon is made of cheese, and communism."
"What of communism!?" I barked.
"He... er, the mince pie just keeps saying 'communism'. That's his sole contribution on that one, sir."
"Okay, keep an eye on him. I may have to promote him... TO HEAD ELF!"
"But... I'm your head elf, sir!"
"Indeed you are... Markus!"
"Erm... well, then there's the matter of the Christmas cracker. This one is..."
"MARKUS! Shut up! Hand me my gin."
Markus took a bottle of gin from his little red tunic and handed it to me. Santa slugged greedily from the bottle, getting a big bunch of that crap over myself (by the way I was still naked at this point) and then I belched exuberantly. I pointed a flabby, shaking finger at Markus.
"Christmas cracker!"
"Yes, sir! This one is called Susan and she's a bit different."
"..."
"Sir?"
"What?"
"I was waiting for an obscenity of some kind, sir."
"Bollocks!"
"Okay, well she's highly intelligent and this is a bit different to the Jeff the Christmas Pudding situation. She's motioned for a coup d'état and will progress rapidly."
I was silent as I mulled this one over.
"Sir, do you know what a coup d'état is?"
"Of course I know what a soup tart is, you fucking idiot!"
Markus shuffled on his feet. He then produced a letter written in eloquent English and with exquisite handwriting. As Santa scratched his big fart hairy arse, he read over the note.
Dear Father Christmas,
My name is Susan and I am a Christmas cracker. The joke within me is boring and banal, I shall spare myself from ridicule in mentioning..."
Santa had a violent coughing fit at this point and gobbed all over the floor. Then I continued reading the garbage.
the jaunty aphorism within. I trust you shall appreciate this erudite observation, even if it pertains to a far from modest sense of qualia-based...
I shot Markus a steely, haughty, venomous gaze. I looked at the letter. I looked at Markus. I looked at the letter. I looked at Markus. I looked at the letter. I looked at Markus. Markus looked at me in dismay.
"Sir?"
"Blow her up with a bazooka."
"Yes, sir!"
With that, I tilted back in my office chair and realised it was bloody cold. I needed to get dressed. Wash? No, I'd had a shower last year and my stench wasn't too rancid as of yet. All was well! All was swell.
The Indestructible Susan
Markus returned later that day. It was 5pm and I was severely intoxicated and splayed out over the floor, a box of retro '70s sweeties, and all while chewing on a kebab I'd had Nurse Doreen (who doubles up as our cook) had boiled up for me. The elf was smouldering. I drooled as Santa gazed at him, not sure what I was staring at.
Markus, my head elf, handed me a note. Santa was way too out of it to make head nor tail of it, so decided it'd be sensible to ignore it in favour of burbling nonsensical drunken gibberish. Markus knows me well enough at this point to leave me be and return around 1am when I usually come to with a jolt and a general sense of barely restrained hysteria.
That he did. As I jolted up out of my unconsciousness he handed me the Susan note. I read it in a demented, feverish stupor.
Dear Father Christmas,
Your head elf, Markus, attempted to detonate me to smithereens with a bazooka. I make the learned assumption you ordered this assassination attempt. As you are reading this peremptorily incisive note, you shall now be aware of the thwarting of the, aforementioned, attempt.
Yours sincerely,
Susan
P.S. I have written this note in active voice for your salubrious reading delight.
Santa didn't feel best good and puked all over the note. Staggering to Santa's feet, I staggered over to the drinks cabinet in my office and opened the cabinet and picked a bottle of tequila from the cabinet. I slugged heartily from the bottle. Turning to my head elf I then belch-bellowed at him.
"MARKUS! WHAT THE HELL DOES ANY OF THAT MEAN?"
Markus, my head elf (by the way), explained to me he'd attempted to blow Susan up with the bazooka. But she has an army of 135,000 radioactive Christmas cracker soldiers who spotted Markus, cornered him, and ruffed him up a bit. They also set fire to his socks.
"I have no socks, sir." He said to me, his head dipping in shame.
Belching exuberantly, Santa reared up to his full height. Yanking at my belt to tighten my Santa pants, I staggered across the room ranting and raving. For sure, Susan the Christmas cracker was a different type of nemeses to one I had ever faced before. But no bastard ruins my head elf's SOCKS without severe fallout. Severe.
"Markus... go and get a new pair of socks from Nurse Doreen."
"Yes sir!" He said chirping up.
"Then, you little elf git, we're gonna go and tell some cringeworthy dad jokes to that bastard Christmas cracker Susan. She thinks she can outdo me with crap Christmas puns?! She's facing THE master!"
Santa then wet himself liberally and giggled because I remembered Santa's bestest favourite Christmas cracker joke of all time.
What do you get if you eat Christmas decorations? Tinsillitis!
Santa laughed so hard he shat his pants. Armed with that SOB, Susan was done for. Chuffed with this knowledge, and watching Markus (my head elf) stride off to get his new sockies, Santa waddled carefully off to the bathroom as this was quite the nasty mess going on here.
No comments:
Post a Comment