NORTH POLE, Alaska, December 07, 2009 (WSFB-AC) - Hey.  Santa here.  I’ve decided it’s time to make a few changes around here.

You know, every year it’s the same fucking thing.  I work like a dog all year getting piles of shit ready for you people.  Letter after letter from snot nosed little shits begging for piles of toys, games, bikes, puppies, you name it. Bust my ass for 11 months — I mean, the logistics of this shit are mind-boggling — and then pull a fucking all-nighter running all over the goddamn world dropping all your crap off.  All-nighters at my age!  What the fuck are you people thinking?

And what thanks do I get? A couple of stale snickerdoodles? Maybe a few carrots for the shit machines pulling the sleigh? Well, this year people, I got one thing to say:

Fuck that.  This year, Santa’s getting some.

That’s right motherfuckers, I’m fed up with this shit.  I bust my hump delivering tons of useless garbage to you people, and you think a few fucking Keebler’s are gonna balance the books?  You’re fucking delusional.  This year, it’s “Santa Baby” time.  That’s right:  if you want something sparkly from the fat man, you better believe you’re giving me a little something in return.

And we’re not talking baked goods.

You know, it ain’t easy being Santa. I mean, don’t get me wrong: it’s a steady gig, and given the way you people have fucked up the global economy that’s no small thing. But I’m talking work/life balance, here.  The hours are long and the benefits really kind of suck. Outside of the house I don’t really get much in the way of salary, and the medical plan barely covers the treatment for all the goddamn frostbite.  I mean, I get a hell of a dental plan, but what I really need is liposuction and a gym membership.  Have you seen my toes lately? Cause I sure as hell haven’t. The fucking gut I’m carrying around from eating all the shit you people leave out is so big I haven’t seen “Little Santa” since the 1800’s.

And wrangling the elves is no fucking picnic, believe me.  I mean, YOU try organizing a workforce composed entirely of coke fiends — it’s worse than dealing with advertising execs. What, you didn’t know?  Come on, wake the fuck up:  why do you think they’re so small and twitchy?  And the red noses aren’t from the cold: I mean, those little fuckers barely ever see the outside of the factory. With all the shit you people want, I gotta work ‘em 18 hours a day just to meet schedules, and that shit ain’t happening without loads of Bolivia’s finest export.  Let it snow, bitches, and line up as many rails as you can handle:  we got work to do.

Mrs. Clause?  Don’t get me started.  Naggin’ bitch shut me down decades ago: I haven’t hit that shit since Roosevelt was in office.  She just sits around watching her fucking stories and reading the fine print on my insurance premiums.  “Nobody wants a skinny Santa” my hairy ass:  fucking gold digger just wants my ticker to explode so she can sell the joint and move to Cabo with that man-whore Yukon Cornelius. Fuck her.

And fuck you. I mean that literally, ’cause Santa’s got a brand new bag, bitches. I got your brand new bag Right Fucking Here, and it’s loadedwith special Christmas jam, enough for all you fucking leeches.  So when Santa lands on your rooftop this year, you better believe we’re gonna be doing some good old fashioned bartering, motherfuckers. I got the goods, you got the services.  And Santa ain’t leavin’ till he’s been good and serviced.

What?  This sounds like “Bad Santa”? Give me a fucking break.  Thornton didn’t know shit about being bad.  I mean, he had the drinking part right: you can keep the fucking cookies and milk, give me bourbon and beer nuts.  But you wanna know what bad feels like?  Try 330 pounds of scraggly old man belly slapping against the small of your back at 3AM. That’s bad.

And that’s what I’m talking about here.

Just to be clear, I’m not talking about your kids: that shit would be seriously fucked up. Santa’s got a solid “age of consent” policy.  After all, being immortal comes with the red suit, so I can hang in there until your sweet little baby hits 18.  But after that, all bets are off.

And until then, you better believe that you’ll be picking up the slack for your little rug rats. Santa is on the prowl for some strange, and I ain’t doing shit for free no more.

And as for all you “good little boys” out there, don’t think you’re free and clear in this.  You ever listen to “Back Door Santa”?  Yeah, it’s a metaphor, and it shouldn’t take you geniuses much time to figure it out.  I’ll come down anyone’s chimney:  Santa’s not picky.  You want that new set of golf clubs this year?  Santa’s gonna play the back nine first.

So you better watch out.  You better not cry.  You better not fucking pout either:  I can’t stand that shit.  You want something under the tree this year, you get your ass in the air and take a number.  Santa Claus is comin’ to town.

(This piece marks post #400 since the NEW WSFB launched on 11/02/09)