It was Christmas Eve and everyone at the North Pole was in a tizzy. The day before Christmas usually found Santa Claus in a panic but this year was different. This year was worse - much worse.
"Woman, where the hell is my whiskey?" thundered Santa as he stomped through the small kitchen, slamming cabinet doors in his wake. Mrs. Claus was struck by the marked difference between the typical image that Santa usually projects and this brawling, slovenly man she saw before her. The only difference, really, was the absence of Santa's coat, which meant his suspenders and stained t-shirt were exposed but the transformation was disturbing. Mrs. Claus averted her eyes, as Santa seemed to have the power to tell if she were being dishonest.
"Whiskey? Why, you finished it last year and we haven't gotten any more," she said in her calm, even tone. This wasn't true, as each year Santa was presented with crates of whiskey from thankful parents the world over and, regardless of how much the elves drank during the year (and lordy, how they could drink!) there were always bottles and bottles of the stuff left over. Each Christmas Eve, Mrs. Claus looked at the calendar, hoping that this year would be the year that Santa managed to get his one-year sobriety chip and each Christmas Eve Santa would get stinking drunk and throw the rest of his sobriety chips onto the fire to begin again the day after Christmas.
She tried, in vain, every year to dump the whiskey down the toilet but, being a child of the Great Depression, she wasn't able to waste so much, even if it was whiskey. Mrs. Claus was also a bit of an enabler, half-thinking that it was good for Santa to numb himself for the holiday run. As he always said, Mrs. Claus didn't understand the pressures of his job, and she never would as long as all she did was spend her days making clothes for the elves, puttering around the house and grooming the reindeer. "I have a pretty sweet deal here," she thought to herself, "and I am married to a man who's pretty much wonderful the majority of the year, so who am I to begrudge him a snootful on his most hectic day of the year?"
With her rationale firmly in place she produced a bottle of whiskey from behind the freezer. "Oh, here we go! Here's some whiskey - I must have misplaced it," she said, pouring Santa three fingers of 25-year-old Macallan. He downed it in one gulp and motioned for her to refill his glass. After his second drink he shuddered and cursed. "Martha," he said, and surprised her, as she was addressed by her first name so infrequently that she often forgot it herself, "this year is going to be an ever-loving bitch." He motioned to a letter on the table that had arrived only this morning. "Those gat damn lawyers for the RIAA have sent me a 'cease and desist' letter telling me I can no longer press my own cds to send to the kids. Can you believe that?!? What a load of bullshit. I can tell you one thing for free - that Courtney Love has
never been on the 'good kids' list in her life. Don't even get me started on the boys from Metallica!"
Santa looked pensive for a moment and sighed. "Looks like these kids are going to have to settle for Radiohead cds. Boy, that pisses me off - it makes me look like a chump! Like I don't know the difference between Metallica and Radiohead? Like I don't know that 'OK Computer' is one of the greatest albums of all time? Nah, not to these kids. Thanks to the RIAA I'm going to look like I don't know my ass from my elbow."
This had not been a good year for Santa, what with all the high-tech toys and gadgets kids were asking for these days. It's a popular misconception that Santa's elves happily toiled away all year long making presents, but as of late there's been talk of unionizing. Besides, Santa thought bitterly, the elves' skills set was horribly out-dated. Sure, if kids still wanted, say, a wagon the elves were fine. But each year Santa was having to move more and more of his manufacturing work to Asia, which gave him a twinge of guilt because not only did the Asian children toil away in sweatshops making circuit boards for Western kids, but the majority of them didn't even believe in Santa so he couldn't even hook them up with toys. He had another drink and felt very, very sorry for himself.
The ringing phone snapped him out of his funk and he lumbered to answer it. The wall seemed to simultaneously move closer as well as recede away from Santa's reach and he briefly wondered why the phone was dancing. Mrs. Claus answered the phone and handed it to Santa, whispering, "It's someone from Washington - straighten up!" Santa cleared his throat and answered the phone. "Claus here. Yes. Well, it's the same as every year. No, why would I need that? Well, now, how am I supposed to know - it's magic! No, no, no, now you listen to me...no. I don't think you understand what this means. I've been doing this for centuries, why...well, yes, I understand that. But come on! I'm frickin' Santa Claus! Sigh - fine, I'll see what I can do. Thanks for the notice, you ass."
Santa placed the phone back on the receiver, then lifted it back up and smashed it into the wall. "Why the hell do I need to submit my flight plan for approval with the FAA?!?" he screamed. "If I deviate from my flight plan they will 'have no choice' but to shoot me down? What the hell is that? Oh Martha, I just don't know what I'm going to do," he moaned into his hands.
"Well, you could always call the other Clauses," she suggested timidly. "What, Kwanzaa and Hanu Claus? No stinking way. We've had a rivalry going for years - if I asked for their help it would shift the balance. No way." Santa was still shaking his head "no" as Mrs. Claus dialed the phone. "Hanu? Yes, it's Mrs. Claus. Would you mind grabbing Kwanzaa and coming over, please? We have a bit of an emergency. Thanks."
Within moments, two other men magically appeared in the kitchen near Santa. "Oy vey, Santa - pull yourself together! Stress like this, you don't need," said Santa's cousin, Hanu Claus, as he stretched out in a kitchen chair. "Easy for you to say, Hanu," replied Santa, bitterly. "Your work is almost over while mine has only begun."
"It's like I always tell ya, Santa," Hanu sighed, "You should spread this out over a few days. A little bit here, a little bit there, rack up some air miles and fly yourself to Florida for free in January. What's not to like?"
Santa was getting more and more pissed off by the minute. "Well, Hanu," he said through clenched teeth, "my job would also be a lot easier if I passed out pencils and first-aid kits like you do, but unfortunately, gentile kids expect a little bit more from me."
"Abuse like this, I don't need!" shouted Hanu. Kwanzaa Claus piped up. "Come, come, mon! We all on da same side 'ere. Why don't we all just calm down?"
Santa and Hanu shot each other a knowing look. Neither of them particulary cared for Kwanzaa, for while Santa and Hanu had been at their job for centuries, Kwanzaa was only in his gig as a result of affirmative action imposed in the sixties. Kwanzaa himself wasn't exactly positive of what his point really was, but he knew that they had a major problem that could only be solved if they worked together. Unfortunately, Santa and Hanu were both smarting a bit so they took pot-shots at Kwanzaa.
"Oh, lookie who speaks!" said Hanu. "It's Mr. I'm Not A Real Holiday But Pretend I'm All About African Heritage Even Though I Was Born in Jamacia! Yes, I'd
love to hear your insights, seeing as how your job doesn't even start until after Christmas is over - probably timed it that way to take advantage of the sales." Kwanzaa was livid. "You jus' jealous, mon, that you didn't tink of it first!" he shouted at Hanu. Santa piped up and drunkenly slurred, "No, Hanu, it's like this - he creeps into the houses where I've left toys and lifts them to deliver them to the Kwanzaa kids!" Now Kwanzaa was really pissed. "Wot you mean to say dere, Santa? You sayin' you tink I thieve because I'm black, mon? Is dat what you sayin'?"
Mrs. Claus tried to diffuse the situation before it turned into an all-out brawl. "Boys! Come on now, we have a problem that we need to solve. How are we going to get all of these toys delivered if Santa can't fly without declaring his flight plan? Come on and think!"
"I bet Kwanzaa would have no problem busting into homes to deliver the toys, would ya, Kwanzaa?" snorted Santa. "Remember when you were busted on that breaking and entering charge and you had to get Hanu to hook you up with a lawyer?" Now Santa was howling. "Me and Hanu, we've been doing this for generations and were never busted on breaking and entering. Ah, we laughed and laughed about that one, didn't we, Hanu?" Hanu chuckled to himself, remembering the panicked phone call that Kwanzaa made to him a few years prior when he was arrested. "Tell 'em, mon, tell 'em I be Kwanzaa! Dey don' believe me cuzza my accent, cuzza I don' talk like a da Bushman. But tell 'em Hanu, mon, you gotta help me!"
"Ah, screw dis, mon - give me somma dat whiskey," Kwanzaa mumbled as Santa poured him a glass. "What about you, Hanu? Do you want a drink, too?" slurred Santa. Hanu wiped his glasses and said, "It's highly unorthadox but why not?" He'd secretly been wanting to get his drunk on for some time, but being Jewish it was difficult. If you ever come across a Jewish alcoholic, you can be sure that they worked very, very hard to get that way.
As Kwanzaa, Santa and Hanu sat around getting drunk and telling stories about their toy deliveries through the years, Mrs. Claus became impatient. "Um, Santa, what about the kids this year? What are we going to do?" Santa turned one glassy eye to his wife and sneered, "It's your problem now, toots." Mrs. Claus thought for a moment, then devised a plan.
She hurried to her wardrobe and found, way in the back, a red leather bustier with garters and stockings. She quickly pulled them on and surveyed her curvaceous body. Not bad, she thought to herself, as she pulled her cloak around her. She knew that there was only one way the kids would get their gifts tonight, and that was for her to deliver them herself. And there was only one way that she could get security clearance to fly around the world without a flight plan.
She dug into the filing cabinet that Santa reserved for letters from the adult freaks and weirdos that routinely sent him letters asking for perverted items and scenarios. She found the one she was looking for and read the letter again. On her way out the door she grabbed a riding crop and a saddle and made her way to the sleigh. Rudolph saw what she was carrying and asked her, "Why, Mrs. Claus - you're not planning on riding one of us reindeer, are you?" "No, you silly reindeer!" she laughed, "These are for a very naughty little boy that can help me get clearance to deliver the toys tonight. I'll give him what he's been asking for and he will give me something I want." She peered at the letter once more and shouted to the reindeer, "Now on to John Ashcroft's house - mush, mush!"
As she flew away from the North Pole she thought of the tasks that lay ahead of her that evening, but all she could really focus on were thoughts of the crates of whiskey that would await her upon her return. "Santa's going to be seeing some changes around here", she chuckled to herself.
And that's the story of how women's liberation changed the face of Christmas forever. Or something. I just really like the thought of John Ascroft wanting to play "Whip the Reindeer" with Mrs. Claus.
Yuletide-ingly,
Natalie
Merry Christmas Eve and all that jazz. ()
