All this fake news is driving people crazy. It’s hard to know who meant what or what meant who. Does the allegation of “fake news” mean a story is fake news, or that the allegation of fake news is the fake news?
In the clear light of all this confusion, I’d like to set the record straight on Santa Claus. What you are about to read may sleigh you. Or confuse you. Or clear things up. Or knot.
For the record, Santa lives at the North Poll, which is sparsely populated because nobody wants to be around Pollsters. Everybody is sick of them. Their presents are unwelcome.
Many think Santa is a slouch who only works a few weeks out of the year. Not true. In the off season, he maintains expansive garden plots, where he can hoe, hoe, hoe, hoe.
Of course, this is not the off season, but the on season, which is why you often hear the sounds of Santa furiously wrapping — “In Da Workshop” and “Ho, Ho, Ho, She Gotta Go.” He prefers wrapping in the daytime as opposed to the evening, as he has always been fond of “Silent Night.”
Santa Claus does not wrap alone; subordinate clauses help him. For the most part, they are elf-educated, elf-efficient and have good elf-esteem. They are a joy. To the world.
Santa continues making deliveries from the North Poll in his antiquated sleigh, which he refuses to relinquish because it sets him apart from his relatives at the South Poll who mainly drive pickups.
Comet and Blitzen remain Santa’s premier powerhouses, but they, too, are aging and must often stop for coffee. They are star bucks.
Global security concerns, nipping at Santa’s heels, mean he must now comply with TSA inspections (unpack all those carry-ons) and file flight plans with the FAA. Santa moans that travel has gone to the dogs.
“They don’t make it easy to go dachshund through the snow.” In times past, Santa could pretty well deck the halls anywhere and anytime he wanted — even down chimneys. It sooted him.
Yet some traditions remain the same. Every December 24th, the elves proclaim the candy canes to be in mint condition, Santa grabs a box of Frosted Flakes, throws a few toilet-trees in a bag and ambles out to the sleigh.
Mrs. Claus gives him her usual frosty reception.
“Don’t start,” Santa says. “Yule be sorry.”
“Every time you pull an all-nighter you come home with tinsilitis! And you better not come back broke — Saint Nickel-less!”
Santa shrugs and says, “I’ll be home for Christmas.”
“Only in your dreams!” she huffs.
Santa not only has undercurrents with the missus, but with all the children who don’t believe in him — rebels without a Claus. And then there are the little ones who do believe, but can’t pronounce his name. Poor things call him Santa Cause. (Noel.)
But despite all that, Santa is still widely adored and deerly loved.
Why don’t we all sing together? Freeze a jolly good fellow.
