No North Pole Ice Makes For an Unhappy Fat Man: Letter From A Homeless Santa Claus

You Motherfuckers,

You couldn’t even give me the right warning, could you? Jolly old Nick, hanging out at the North Pole, building toys for all of your little whining brats, most of which take electricity or batteries or some other kind of something that you all choose to supply by burning a couple million tons of coal. That’s fine. I knew what was up. My cost was going to go through the roof I had to start putting clean energy in bad kid’s stockings. Lump of coal? A penny. Maybe. Cut in half. A goddamn solar cell? You get the point.

You don’t hang around popular legend for 200 years and not be able to spot a trend; when the ice started walking back in the 70s, I knew the workshop would have to pack up and move. But then you told me I’d be good until 2049. Guess who was procrastinating because he had to make one too many Tickle Me Elmo EXTREMEs last year and wanted to go on a six month bender? Don’t act like you’ve never done it. Like I said, you told me I had time.

We see how that worked out. Forty-one years away, and the workshop is on it’s way to Davy Jones’ locker. The ice I built it on so that you ungrateful little scamps could have a pretty picture in the TV specials? Disappearing like virgins in a freshman dormitory. We were going to try and hold out for one more year, but after Blitzen got eaten by a polar bear that had wandered off looking for food, we knew it was time to go. Good thing, too, or then you wouldn’t have me, trying to rebuild my operation. And then what would you do with all those sniveling spawn of yours during holiday trips to the mall?

You all seem happy to talk about me once a year, passing along tales of hope and joy, and sacrifice, and occasionally reminding me that I can be replaced by a drug dealer if you feel like it. I got news for you: all I need for Christmas this year is a place to stay. And unlimited access to your liquor cabinet. Santa’s kind of sick of Thunderbird on the park bench, you know what I’m saying? You little bastards owe it to me. Oh, and find somebody else to deliver your damn presents. You got your freebie. Now Santa’s gotta get his.

Up Yours,

S. Claus