It was December 24th, and there I sat, slaving away at my desk. At around 4:30, my boss came out of his office to see how everything was going.

“How’s everything going?” he said.

“Fine, sir.” I replied. “Can I go home now?”

“Do you have any decent concepts yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Then get cracking. We can’t afford to lose this account.”

“But, sir, it’s Christmas Eve.”

“And?”

“Well, we should be with our loved ones.”

“Oh really? And what do you plan on doing with your loved ones?”

“Uhhh trimming the tree?”

“Smivey, I know for a fact that you live alone and the only thing you have to do is maybe watch Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer for the upteenth time.”

“I forgot to TiVo it.”

“I’ll buy you the fucking DVD.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Well, unlike you, I do have family to go home to. But you know what? They understand that I also have a job to do. Come to think of it, who the hell decided that Christmas Eve was supposed to be some kind of holiday? All you do is run around, trying to find last-minute gifts and buying things that nobody is going to ever use. Oh, and wrapping presents. Why does everyone put off wrapping presents? Is it so fucking hard?”

“No, sir.”

“Of course not, you idgit. Besides, technically, it’s not even Christmas Eve yet. It’s what we call Christmas Eve Day, which is total bullshit. As far as I’m concerned, the holiday doesn’t start until the 25th. Making you working on Christmas Eve doesn’t make me an evil Scrooge. It just makes me a dick, and I can live with that. But just to show you there are no hard feelings, I’m going to give you a gift.”

“You are?”

“Yes, it’s your job. But it expires in three months. In March, I take it back—unless I see something brilliant on my desk from you before then. How does that sound?”

“Good?”

“Right. Now get your ass out of here and go home to your 34-inch widescreen TV.”

“Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas…”

“If you say ‘everyone’, I’m going to strangle you.”

“Uh, Merry Christmas.”

“Bite me.”

I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to Google stupid poems and paste them into my blog. Instead, I have chosen to type up a holiday classic as best as I can recall it:

‘Twas the night before Christmas
and all through the house,
not creature was stirring,
not even a mouse

The children were nestled
all snug in their beds,
while visions of sugar plums
danced in their heads.

and ma in her kerchief
and I in my cap
had just settled down
for a long winter’s nap

When all of the sudden,
there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed
to see what was the matter

Over to the window,
I ran with a dash
pulled open the shutters,
tore down the sash

Uhhhhh

When what to my wondering
eyes did appear,
but a miniature sleigh
and eight tiny reindeer.

OK, hang on. See, the reindeer weren’t really tiny. They just looked small because they were so high in the sky.

Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe this is a story about a very small Santa and his minuscule reindeer. If that’s the case, what kind of toys would he bring for the kids? You can forget about train sets or dolls. Poor little fella wouldn’t be able to handle such weight. Maybe he could lug some socks down the chimney or one of those friendship bracelets. Other than that, you’re kind of shit out of luck when it comes to the mini Santa and his eight little reindeer.

Oh, right. Then there’s that part about the reindeer names:

On Dasher, on Dancer,
on Donner, on Bitzen,
on Comet and Cupid
and Something and Something

Come to think of it, perhaps all the toys were scaled down for him. So when Billy wakes up, he would find a really, really small train set under the tree. Most likely, he’d step on it and get it lodged in his foot. Then ma in her kerchief would have to get out the tweezers and attempt to pull the train out of Billy’s foot, while Sally attempted to dress a doll no larger than her pinkie nail.

Man, I sure hope it was just a perspective thing and it wasn’t really a tiny Santa.

From the top of the something
to the top of the wall,
dash away, dash away,
dash away all

Hang on a minute. The story just refers to a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, right? Maybe Santa was full size, but his sleigh and reindeer were really small. Wow, that would be one fucked up image. Poor little reindeer, having to pull this huge tub of lard around the world in an itty bitty sleigh. And for what? The sleigh is still small, so it’s not like he could fit any good toys in there. How hard is it to build a normal sleigh and get some regular sized reindeer? Don’t be such a dick, Santa. It’s Christmas.

Sorry, where was I? Uhhhhh hmmm

Placing a finger
inside of his nose,
he gave me a wink
and up the chimney he rose.

And I heard him exclaim
as he drove out of sight. . .

Yeah, whatever, you know the rest. Good night.

Because I don’t know what to write about, I thought I’d share with you a little secret. See, I can sort of tell where you came from. No, not your place of birth. I mean if you link from a certain Google search, I can see what that search was. In most cases, this isn’t such a big deal. But every once in a while, someone visits my page after searching for something pretty freaky. For those people, I bring you my newest feature: The Crown of Humiliation.

The first Crown of Humiliation goes to a visitor from Dubai who just this morning thought he’d (I’m assuming the gender) search for “my mommy horn slut bitch.” Unfortunately for Mr. Dubai, his search only led him to this page. Not exactly what you had in mind was it, Mr. Dubai? Oh well. Congratulations. Please leave your acceptance speech in the comments section.