Santa sat in his Lazy Boy, with his pants unsnapped, watching a college football game. Notre Dame was taking on Southern Cal in the Toilet Bowl. Claus was a big USC fan. (Whenever the announcer would mention “Trojans” it always made him giggle.)

“Throw the damn ball! You run like a snowman in a tar pit,” Santa yelled. Mrs. Claus entered the room carrying a plate of sugar cookies.

“Santa, it’s just a game,” she said as she sat the snacks on his beefy lap.

“I’ve got five hundred candy canes riding on this, and I’m giving away seven and a half points,” Santa snipped.

“You promised you weren’t going to gamble anymore after the bookie took the sled,” Mrs. Claus stated.

“ESPN said it was a lock. Rip up Berman’s list. He gets coal this year,” he grumbled.

“Well, it doesn’t look like anyone’s getting anything this year. I’m sure the kids...”

“Oh, don’t start! Do not start with the kids! I work my tail off all year for ‘the kids’ and whatta I get... milk and cookies. Go get me a beer,” Santa snapped. In a huff, Mrs. Claus walked away.

Santa had grown old and tired. He was no longer interested in bringing joy to millions of children. He just wanted to retire, sell Toyland, and move to Miami to golf and count ballots. He had put in his time, 623 years to be exact. He had become bitter and antsy. To stifle the lingering disgruntlement, he had started drinking, gambling, smoking cigars, and eating Prozac like it was gingerbread. He had gained 265 pounds and was constantly wheezing. His ear and nose hair were almost as long as his yellow tainted beard. If that wasn’t enough, his finger nails were the length of candy canes and he refused to leave the house for fear of outside germs.

The toy factory was in disarray. The elves were no longer being drug tested. They were sleeping in after all night parties. And, sexual harassment complaints were on the rise. The reindeer farm was in shambles. The barn was in dire need of four walls and a roof. Piles of dung littered the snow resembling a Chunky Monkey carton of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. The animals hadn’t eaten for weeks and were almost as thin as Calista Flockhart. The only way they could fly was on a 767.

Mrs. Claus had tried her best to motivate her husband. She made his favorite dishes, massaged his flabby love handles, and even dressed up in a tight Easter Bunny outfit to see if that would get his egg nog pumping. But it was to no avail. The jolly man wasn’t looking for jollies. Somehow, somewhere his life had lost zest... and we’re not talking soap. Meaning had hopped a bus to Chicago. Purpose had taken a train to Denver. Ambition, well let’s just say, that was on a slow boat to China looking to link up with a fluffy, unattached, Panda Bear named Ding-a-ling.

Christmas was just around the corner... and down 34th Street. Things did not look good. Santa was now up to three fifths of Smirnoff a day. His nose was so red that, if he did venture out Christmas Eve, he could guide his sleigh. The alcohol had made him irritable. At the drop of a mistletoe leaf, he would zoom into a rage. The elves would tease him by sticking “kick me” signs on his back, putting mascara on his face when he passed out, and hiding wet sticky gumdrops in his beard. The reindeer kept their distance ever since the night Santa, in a drunken stupor, staggered into the barn and jumped on Blitzen’s back yelling, “Yee haw! Get along little doggie!” When the frightened reindeer tried to buck the heavy oaf off the intoxicated slob vomited on the animal’s head then fell to the ground laughing. Every member of the traumatized sled team huddled in a corner, quivering and fighting to hide behind one another.

One snowy night, Santa passed out on the floor near the couch. (One less drink and there’s a good possibility he may have made it to the sofa, but it’s pure speculation.) Next to him a roaring fire crackled, luckily it was in the fireplace. As the lumpy lush lay on the floor, snoring through his crusty whiskers, a bright light illuminated him.

He struggled to open his eyes, grumbling, “You damn elves leave me the hell...”

The vision halted his sentence. His blood-shot pupils focused in on what appeared to be a short old bald man dressed in a cheap suit, smoking a cigar. “Where did you come from?” Santa slurred.

“I just flew in from purgatory and boy do my arms feel guilty,” the ghost remarked.

“Just who in the blazes are you?” Santa asked the apparition.

“I’m da ghost of Christmas past. And speaking of Christmas...” he continued. “Last year my wife put a bow in her hair and wanted me to unwrap her. I exchanged her for a tie.” A quick drum roll and cymbal chimed from above. Santa just stared at the man. “Oy vey, tough crowd,” the man snapped. Shaking it off, he grabbed Santa’s arm and said “Let’s go Slim, we gotta look back on your life.”

“Ho, ho, hold on a second. Aren’t you Jewish?” Santa questioned. The man shrugged and grumbled, “Who knew?”

In his previous life, the ghost was a Catskill’s comic who told one-liner jokes. His material was so bad that audiences would bombard him with whatever food they had in front of them. One night, during the second set, an under-ripe squash made contact with his skull. It put the hack in a coma that he never recovered from. Ironically, the vegetable had rendered him a vegetable. Before he died, the hospital nurse swears she heard the comedian mumble, “Take my life... please.”

The ghostly funny man took a long puff of his cigar then exhaled a room full of smoke. When the second hand smog cleared Santa and the comic found themselves standing at the foot of a rickety bed. A frail dying woman, resembling Phyllis Diller in her youth, laid covered by a green and red Afghan--her wrinkly head propped up on a goose-feather pillow. A small boy stood next to her, feeding the withering hag some cocktail peanuts.

“Great balls of popcorn! That’s my, my mother,” Santa exclaimed. “Momma. Momma. It’s me, Nicholas,” Santa called out.

“Hey, no heckling. She can’t hear you,” the ghost stated.

“Who’s that small boy?” Santa inquired.

“Listen to him, when they passed out brains you must’ve thought they said trains and taken one to Albany. That’s you, ya little brat,” the Henny Youngman look-alike quipped.

“But my hair was red, not black,” Claus said. “Yea, well, color flashbacks ain’t cheap, and dis comes out of my pocket, tubby,” the comic responded.

“I’m sorry they were out of cashews, Momma,” the young boy said as he delicately planted a beer nut on his mother’s dry tongue.

“That’s alright, Nicky,” she grunted. “Just promise me you’ll make toys and deliver them to poor, unfortunate children all around the world,” she gasped.

“But, I thought you wanted me to be a lawyer, Momma,” young Claus inquired.

“No, oh no, you’ll never get to Heaven that way. Go with the toys, my boy. Go with the toys,” she coughed as she patted his tiny head.

“I promise, Momma. I promise,” the tike answered.

At the foot of the bed, Santa mumbled “The toys...” as he looked at the comic. The ghost smiled and said, “Two toys walk into a bar...”

Morning had arrived and Santa’s eyes slowly opened. His tattered head was resting on an empty bottle of Wild Turkey. Sitting up, he grabbed his throbbing skull and groaned in pain. “Ho, ho, holy snowballs, I should’ve put more ice in the glass.” A loud noise startled him. It was Mrs. Claus pushing a reverberating vacuum cleaner into the room. Santa pulled himself onto the couch. Huffing, he leaned over and bellowed, “Turn that thing off!”

After several overt strokes of the Red Devil, she clicked it off. “Did you enjoy yourself last night?” she coldly inquired.

“Don’t start on me. Do not start,” he said in his Ralph Kramdan tone.

“Is there or isn’t there going to be a Christmas this year because I need to know? If not, I’ll just throw the sugar plums out. There’s no use in keeping...”

“Enough, woman!” Santa yelled.

He somehow made his way over to the dry bar. Trembling, he began mixing a Bloody Mary. Mrs. Claus started the vacuum. Santa took a sip of his drink, made a sour look, then added some tobassco sauce. He looked in the mirror . His face resembled the surface of Mars with craters and deep canals buried from the chin to the forehead. “The toys” his mother’s raspy voice whispered. Santa remembered his dream. Mrs. Claus turned off the vacuum and started to walk out.

“Did you see an old Jewish man here last night? He told jokes and, and... carried a violin,” Santa asked.

Mrs. Claus glared at him. “You better get some help, fat man” she replied as she stormed out.

By seven that evening, Santa was half-in-the-bag, literally. He had climbed in one of his burlap sacks that typically hold presents and had fallen face down on the newly swept carpet. All day he had been polluting his body with a mixture of tequila, Bacardi rum, and a splash of egg nog. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Disgusted, Mrs. Claus had gone into town to shop for some scented candles and a brick of cinnamon botanical potpourri. As a result of the afternoon binge, the chubby man had drifted off to Tipsy Town.

Sometime during the night, Santa was awakened by a crooning version of “White Christmas.” In the corner of the room sat a man with droopy cheeks, casually smoking a pipe. “Hey ba, ba, boy, looks to me like you been dipping in the sauce a little too much,” a low bass voice chimed.

Santa sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Who are you?” Claus asked.

“Oh, I’m the ghost of Christmas present and I was just on the road to Heaven, thought I’d swing ba, ba, by and pick up my wings,” the Bing Crosby like spirit said as he puffed away.

“Didn’t I put some golf clubs under your tree one year?” Santa recalled.

“1938, and a fine set they were. Dunlop XL’s, I ba, ba, believe” the man smiled as he stood up. “Well, come on ba, ba, big boy, we got places to ba, be.” Exhaling a puff of pipe vapors, the pair vanished into thin cloudy air.

The twosome found themselves in the toy factory. The place was a mess. Littering the floors were dolls with their heads off, wagons without wheels, stuffing seeping from fuzzy animals, toy soldiers missing uniforms. There wasn’t one completed toy. “Holy night! What’s happened to the toys!” Santa gasped.

“Looks to me like your workers went on holiday for the holidays,” the crooner quipped. From the back room, the sounds of Rap music shook the walls.

“What in the Charles Dickens is that noise?” Santa questioned.

“Must be ba, ba, buffalo mating. It sure ain’t music, ba ba ba boo” the tokin’ man stated.

Santa found himself in the midst of a wild party. Liquor flowed like latte at a corner Starbucks. Drunk reindeer flew recklessly into walls. And, elves were dancing, bumping and grinding half-naked on the work benches.

“Quite a show you’re running here, Saint Nick. Reminds me a little of the Play, ba, ba, boy Mansion,” the ghost exclaimed. “I thought your racket was making toys for little girls and ba, ba, boys,” he continued.

“Yea, well, I’m tired of the toy business. Let the Japanese have the market. I’ve had my fill,” Santa snapped.

“Sounds like you’re in a ba, ba bit of a pickle,” replied the ghost as he pretended to swing a four iron.

“I’d like to be pickled. Can we get outta here?” Santa huffed.

“You know, you remind me of a chubby little sidekick I used to work with. Always wanted the funny lines. Never wanted to give. Poor fella got the laughs. Me, well I just wound up with the ba, ba, beautiful girl,” the ghost laughed.

“You stuttering idiot, is that why you brought me here to tell me some nonsensical ho, ho, horrifically lame story? Santa yelled.

“You just don’t get it ba, ba, boy. Don’t you see? It’s when we give, we receive, a pah-rum-pa-pum-pum.”

The bearded Claus shook his head and mumbled, “I need a drink.”

Santa arose bright and early the next afternoon. Standing over him was Mrs. Claus. “You know, if we had toys this year we could fill the bags under your eyes,” she fired. Dazed and confused, he could only murmur a grunt. “You smell like a Whoville brewery,” she cracked. Santa managed to stumble over to the sink. His hand began to shake as he filled a glass of water. He placed six aspirins on his discolored tongue and washed them down. “And another thing...,” his wife began.

Leaning over he blurted, “Woman, you’re gonna be the death of me. You hear me! The death of me!”

Enraged, Mrs. Claus threw one of her fuzzy boots at him, barely missing his head. “Ho, ho, ho,” he snickered.

“I am not!” she yelled. “That does it, you abdominal snowman,” she continued, “I’m going to mother’s.”

Mrs. Claus, in tears, stormed out of the room. Santa kicked the Christmas tree over. Ornaments and bulbs shattered on the floor. With craziness in his eyes he slurred, “I don’t need anybody.” He was wrong. That night, the irate alcoholic invited Johnny Walker and Jack Daniels over for a party in his belly.

As usual, the hefty distilled sponge fell into his scheduled intoxicated somber. As usual, a ghost woke him up. “Ra, ra, ra , ra, rise and sha, sha, shine, Harvey, I mean Santa,” the tall, skinny Jimmy Stewart ghost stuttered. “I’m the ga, ga, ga, ghost of Christmas future,” he continued.

“Can’t you ghosts just give me one silent night?” Santa whined.

“Wa, wa, wa, well, we, we could but, wa wa well, it wouldn’t be ra, ra, right, by golly,” the ghost replied.

“Alright, let’s get this crap over with,” Santa reluctantly complied.

“Le, le, le, let me see if I remember how to do this li, li, little effect,” the spirit said. The ghost held a cigarette up to his mouth and lit it. He began coughing out smoke. “Ga, ga, good stuff,” he wheezed as the room became hazy.

The two time travelers found themselves standing in a run down trailer. Dirty dishes and a confederate flag decorated the room. A small boy sat in the corner weeping. “That poor little fella. Why’s he crying?” Santa inquired.

Voices were heard coming from the back room. They grew louder. “Whatta ya mean you spent your paycheck at the bar?” a woman screamed. “You were supposed to buy Tiny Tom a Razor Scooter. That’s all he wanted for Christmas!” she cried.

Shaking his head in disgust Santa mumbled, “That father’s a selfish louse.”

The couple continued to battle. The boy snatched his Snoopy blanket and ran out the door. Santa tried to grab him but the little child just passed through his body. “Where’s he going? Santa anxiously inquired. “It’s snowing and freezing out there,” he stated.

“Tha, tha, that it is. But it’s warmer out there than it is in here,” the ghost replied.

“What happens to him?” Santa questioned.

“Oh, the, the, they find him tomorrow morning, frozen, on the side of the road. In the snow he wrote ‘God Bless Everyone’,” the ghost calmly answers.

Santa’s heart stops as he struggles to breath. “Who would let this happen?” he pondered out loud. The bickering spouses emerged from back room. Stunned, Santa wavers in shock. The ghost steadies the big man. Staggering in front of them is a white bearded man in smoking a Marboro Light. He is dressed in boxer shorts and a tank top T-shirt that reads “Bite Me!” with a small Budweiser logo. He is holding a bottle of Boone’s Farm wine.

Santa grew sick and pale. Ashamed, he looked at the ghost. “Wha, wha, well, what did you expect? A wonderful life?” the ghost stated.

Morning had arrived at it’s designated time. Through the window, snow gently fluttered down. The house was quiet, except for a mouse stirring... his coffee. Santa was down for the count again, curled up under a sheet of wrapping paper. It looked like Christmas was going to take a “time out” this year. Suddenly, oh what a sight, Saint Nick sprang in the air like a Laker guard. He bulled his way through the furniture, and oh what a clatter. He ran to the window and opened it wide. He called down to an elf carrying a keg. “What day is it, my fine midget friend?”

“Why it’s Christmas day, sir,” the elf answered.

Santa lips started to quiver as tears filled his eyes. The elf looked up and smiled. “I’m just yanking your chain, tubbo. It’s only Thanksgiving.”

“D’oh! Santa said as he gritted his teeth, “Why you little...”

“Hey,” the elf continued, “Why don’t you grab a couple of bottles and come over to the factory. We’re having a Macy’s Day Parade and we need a float.” Santa slammed the window shut.

“As God is my witness, there will be a Christmas this year,” he vowed.

Santa tore open his closet doors. In a fury, he ripped his red outfit off the hanger. With the strength of six Grinches, plus two, he sucked in his beer gut. He wiggled then jiggled ‘til he could wiggle no more. He was getting in those pants and that was for sure. He waddled his way over to the bathroom sink. He trimmed his beard and cut his nails. (That’s right, Claus clip his claws.) Now, it was time for business. He gathered every ounce of liquor around the house and, while sweating, flushed it down the toilet. It felt good...then bad... then good again. He was alive... and he had a mission. And, some say, Santa’s liver shrank ten sizes that day.

The reindeer and elves were partying and living the la vida loco when the door crashed opened. Holding an ax and looking down on the motley bunch was none other then Claus himself. “Here’s Kringle,” Santa said in an eerie Nicholson voice.

“Look,” cried a drunk elf, “It’s the bearded drunk!”

Everyone burst out in laughter. “Ho, ho, hold it down my ‘faithful’ workers,” Santa calmly said.

“You’re the one who can hold it down!” Rudolph yelled.

“Yeah, a whole gallon!” Herbie the elf added.

Santa smiled as he casually walked among the pint-size party rebels. “It appears what we have here is a failure to communicate,” Claus remarked. “We gots some toys to make. Now, we can do it the hard way or the easy way. So, what’s it gonna be, ba, ba, boys,” Santa stated.

Squatty, the biggest of the elves, towered at 3 foot 8 inches. He boldly stood up. “We don’t take orders from drunks,” he snickered.

“Is that right?” Santa asked as he looked around. Cocky, the elves and reindeer nodded in unison.

“Well, in that case, I think I’ll help myself to a frosty mug,” Santa seemingly surrendered.

Everyone raised their cups and cheered. The stout man leaned over the beer barrel, but instead of pouring himself a draft, he picked up the keg and crashed it over the head of Squatty. The big tiny elf rolled his eyes back in his head and collapsed in a crate of Rudy Toot Toots. A pine needle could be heard hitting the floor. “Anyone else?” Santa asked.

With eyes agape, everyone shook their head in fright. “Well then, what’s everyone standing around for? We’ve got toys to make!” Santa yelled. In an instant, sobriety filled the air, sending the workers scurrying to their stations.

The elves worked around the clock. Toys were being cranked out by the minute. Reindeers were busy training. They practiced take-offs, rooftop landings, and building up their stamina for the arduous journey. Santa was occupied in his private shed building a sleigh. During this hectic period, Mrs. Claus had returned to gather some knickknacks she had left behind. (Like any woman, she had a fondness for knickknacks.) Unbeknownst to Santa, she was also carrying divorce papers. When he saw her he swept her up in her arms and said “I love you, Mrs. Claus!”

She looked at his glowing puffy face and knew he was sober and he meant it. She smiled and said, “I love you, Santa Claus.” The jolly man twirled her around and around until she threw up on his hat.

It was Christmas Eve and the elves had just finished packing up the sleigh and harnessing the reindeer. Dressed in his gleaming red suit, Santa sat at the wheel. Mrs. Claus ran out of the house holding a tin of cookies and fruitcake.

“Wait! she yelled.

Santa climbed down off the sleigh. “The doctor just called,” she said.

“Oh no, no, no. Is my cholesterol count too high to fly?” Santa sadly asked.

“Your cholesterol level is fine and your blood pressure is normal,” she smiled. “I’m pregnant,” she said with a glow.

“Ho, ho, ho! It’s a Christmas’ miracle!” Santa exclaimed. He picked up his wife, deciding not to twirl her around this time, he put her down and kissed her.

“Now you get going. You have a long night ahead of you. Here’s some snicksnacks for your ride,” she said as she handed him the treats.

Santa climbed back on the sleigh and fastened his seat belt. He lifted a Walkie-talkie to his mouth and said, “Flight four, six, niner, prepared for take off.”

An elf in the tower responded “You have clearance, Claus.”

With a tug of the reigns the jolly man yelled, “On Dasher, on Dancer, on...., on..., ah, you know your names.”

“Then up to the sky
the sleigh started to cruise.
There would be a Christmas
St. Nick was off the booze.”

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About the author: Jeff Charlebois is not your ordinary comedian. Paralyzed in high school, he refused to get down, instead he got up... up on stage! He performs in a wheelchair and is billed as a “sit down comic who’s always on a roll.”

The talented comic now lives in Los Angeles where he recently wrote and produced a sitcom called “Good Sam.” He writes a monthly article for “Ability Magazine” and blogs for “Disaboom.com. Jeff has also published a hospital humor book titled “Medical Secrets Revealed” which can be found on his website: www.randyciak.com/jeff2

Email: rollonboy2004@yahoo.com

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