Spreading Christmas Cheer Plot Hole By Plot Hole
A Geezer’s Notebook, By Jim Foster
It’s that time of year again and we are already being bombarded with Christmas music. The trouble is most of it was written by hacks in California who had seen pictures of snow in magazines but were never actually out in it.
A classic example of what I am talking about is Leroy Anderson’s Sleigh Ride. It sounds so romantic, sitting with your beloved ching-ching-chingaling along a snow-packed road in a wonderland of snow, giddy-up-giddy-upping with your friends all calling ‘You hoo” your cheeks all rosy and comfy cozy. They aren’t rosy, they’re frostbitten black. That’s the ones on your face. Your other cheeks froze to the sleigh after you peed your pants when the silly ass driving the sleigh hit a pothole a foot and a half deep.
When your bum finally hit the deck again, everyone had shifted down three places and your beloved is upside down in a ditch or lying in the middle of the road with multiple cuts and abrasions.
The only warmth you’ve felt since you left the barn three hours ago was after the two horses farted. But their noxious drafts blew all the hay away and you were freezing again. So you can take your wintry sleigh ride and jam it… In other words, I don’t recommend it.
But the Christmas music started me thinking about the message of Christmas, oh not the peace on earth stuff, the joy of giving.
I often wonder about old Santa. Have you ever stopped to think this old geezer has been handing out toys and goodies for over 400 years? Why does he do that?
Why does he give gifts to little kids? He must have spent a lot of bread over the years when you think about it.
Even if he made all the stuff, which he doesn’t, although, sometimes I have to wonder. Some of the junk I got was obviously not put together by skilled labour.
A lot of the gifts under our trees weren’t put together at all. I got a set of book-shelves last year from some yoyo who obviously had gone into IKEA for the cheap breakfast. I finally hauled it out of the basement yesterday and took a whack at putting it together. Easy to assemble it says on the side of the box. I don’t think so, the instructions are written in Chinese.
I got absolutely nowhere, parts and soy sauce all over the floor until Mary pointed out I had somehow picked up the take-out menu from the Royal Oak. For over an hour I had been trying to assemble an order of Chicken Soo Guy.
But as I was saying, even if Santa builds the toys, the cost of materials alone will be staggering. And that’s only the gifts; he still has to feed his crew. They are all elves and fairies and my God those guys can eat. Santa can’t pawn off a plate of beans and wieners on them either. They’re unionized and their contract says they have to have balanced gluten-free meals.
They are all in the CAW, 36 bucks an hour. What is an elf going to do with all that money? It’s not like they have to buy anything. They live rent-free up at the North Pole. Plus they have group insurance. Why is that? Elves and fairies never die unless someone brings one down with a shot of Raid or he flies into a bug zapper. Plus they’ve got a dental plan and we don’t even know if elves have teeth. You can never get close enough to get a really good look at one. They just flit away.
One minute the tooth fairy is on your pillow and the next he’s long gone and your false teeth are missing. What in hell does the tooth fairy do with the teeth anyway? Probably sell them to some sweatshop in Bangladesh that makes knock-off dentures for dental colleges. I’ve got two missing and they didn’t fall out. The tooth fairy pulled them out with a pair of pliers.
What a night that was! Him going at me with the pliers, me screaming, then he took off. Fairies fly, you know. They’re not like leprechauns. Those ugly little buggers hop all over the place.
You try to shake down a leprechaun for his pot of gold. He’ll tear your damned arm off. They’re vicious.
No wonder Irishmen drink. If some Orangeman isn’t throwing a bomb at them, a flippin’ leprechaun is ripping them limb from limb.
Another thing that bothers me is that good and bad girl and boy list that old Claus keeps. I always resented that book. It’s an invasion of privacy at the very least. Just knowing he has it is enough to traumatize most kids. What kind of life is that for some little squirt having to look over his or her shoulder all the time for an elf with a ball-point pen and a notepad?
They probably have little cell phones too, the kind with the camera built in. The more perverted elves tie them on to the end of their pointed shoes and slip it under a woman’s dress. That’s why it’s important for you ladies to wear clean underwear. You never know what’s going to show up on the Internet. The next time you sit on Santa’s knee in the mall, listen carefully what the elf controlling the line says, “This visit may be recorded for accuracy and training purposes.” They all work for Rogers in the off season.
You probably never noticed it before because elves always speak in high squeaky voices. That’s because they are all – how shall I put this – fixed. They do that when they are very young otherwise there’s be elves all over the place, worse than rabbits.
I have always resented that Santa knew what I had been up to all year and had my life written down in a little book. He always brought it out just as I was getting ready to read off my list in Eaton’s in case he didn’t get my letter.
“It says here, Mr. Foster, you were seen playing doctor with Helen Rutledge behind the fence again. Didn’t I… just a second… yes here it is. Little Jimmy Foster, December 19, 1946. spoke to him about trying to talk Helen Rutledge into pulling down her pants.
And Jimmy said, (are you listening, Mr. Foster?) And Jimmy said, ‘I’m sorry Santa, I will never do it again’. Do you remember that?”
“Yes sir, I’m sorry and I really won’t do it again because Helen moved away.”
But seriously though, doesn’t it bother you a little bit that this Santa guy keeps a list of all the little children?
If you or I had a book with the name and address of every kid in Orillia, let alone the whole world, don’t you think that the OPP might be paying us a little visit?
By a little visit, I mean three times a day a swat team would be dragging our sorry backsides to that big building on Memorial Avenue. And I don’t mean Kelsey’s or the Swiss Chalet.
(Image Supplied)
