Let me tell you, this was a sad sight. I tried to interview the deflated jolly old elf. "I was doing okay when it was just kids," panted the famous man-in-red. "This crap with over-gifting grown children has to stop!" He seemed bitter. "Yeah, ya know everyone thinks this stuff gets done by a team of us. Not so. Father Christmas drinks himself under the table every Christmas Eve, and Kris Kringle's got nothing much to do but put fruit and odd bits of nuts in wooden shoes. Let me tell you, in the old days they all had their wooden shoes out on the balcony, so at least he was making the appearance of covering his territory. Now, who's got even one wooden shoe? They leave their Doc Martin's out but Kringle, he won't touch 'em. Says it's not in his job description." I left the former merry old soul where he lay.
Posts
1 comment:
Is there no end to these deflated beings? Last year I stepped on the deflated easter bunny, and knocked out the last living breath in him. Now these sad creatures are popping down everywhere: deflated clergy, entire groups of christmas carolers down for the count. I had a deflated friend ring my doorbell last week and we had to scramble looking for the tire pump. They used to inflate back to life in most neighborhoods sometime after dark, but since the service stations stopped dispensing free air, so many of the deflated have become co-dependent on those of us with exhaused lungs and air pressure devices. Tragic, really. Sort of saps the Christmas spirit, doesn't it?
Post a Comment