Friday Fiction

This Week’s Theme: This Week’s Challenge: Pick a mythical person or creature (e.g., Santa, Thor, Easter Bunny), and explain through dialogue, essay, or anything else, why they are unhappy with their job or position in life. Nag, nag, nag. This is the summary of my life, and frankly, I'm about ready to retire. People think that I have some cushy job that really only involves work one day a year. Well, let me just say to those idiots, being Santa Claus isn't exactly a walk in the park. First off, the whole "Santa" thing - look, my name is Nick. Just once, I'd like to be called by my first name and not have it prefaced by "St." - and let's just leave the whole "Father Christmas" thing completely alone. Even Mrs. Claus, I mean Edna, calls me "Santa Baby". Besides that, I like getting mail just as much as the next person, but if you'd go ahead and ask your kids to at least pretend to care how I'm doing before they start in with their littany of demands, it'd go a long way toward me shortening the "Naughty" list. (And gosh - you parents need to chill. Sometimes your kids get on the Naughty list and, well, frankly, that's your fault. Don't go grumbling and making me the bad guy just because you're too lazy to correct their behavior, and then when they pitch a fit, don't be siccing your lawers on me. You know I keep a list of Naughty and Nice, it's part of my job, so deal with it. If you want off the Naughty list, you know what you need to do.) Then there's the elves. I don't know what kind of whitewash job they've done on the public, but elves are not good coworkers. You've never met a more onery bunch of control freaks than elves. There's no skipping, whistling, or singing while they're in the workshop. I think they hate their jobs more than I hate mine, so at least that's some consolation - especially since they unionized last year and now in addition to the free room, board, 360 days off a year - paid mind you, and health care, they've decided they need a salary. Of course, they haven't got anything to spend it on here at the North Pole, so they'll disappear to Vegas for weeks at a time and come back drunk and broke (and covered in ridiculous gold chains - bling just doesn't work on elves). Try making toys when you entire staff is detoxing. And medical bills have gone through the roof now that at least a quarter of them are in rehab at any one time. Though I have to give them props, I guess, for realizing they need help and trying to fix their life. Even if they do decide that the only place they could possibly recover is somewhere in L.A. (Between you, me, and Rudolph here, I think half of them are hoping to get jobs in the movies and pitch the whole toy making racket. Heck, if I thought they'd hire a fat man with white hair, I'd be down there too. Edna looks great in a two-piece and has been complaining about all the cold lately.) As for the sleigh and reindeer - it's not exactly a stretch limo. It's bumpy and cold and, well, when a reindeer's got to go, it's got to go, which makes for some interesting dodging with the wind whipping in your face. Frankly, you just pretend everything wet that hits you is snow and anything blackish on you is soot - dwelling on reality is just depressing. Add to that the fact that we've had to change our route considerably since NASA got some ridiculous idea to start tracking us by satellite - we can't even go the fast way anymore, so most days I don't get home for a quiet evening by the fire with Edna. I'm lucky if I have time for a shower before those bratty little elves are up and clamoring for their presents and year end bonuses. Day off? Ha! Just as soon as I'm back and the elves taken care of the reports of all the "maybe next year" start pouring in. And thank you notes? That'll be the day. One of these years, you mark my words, I'm going to put everyone on the naughty list, lay off the elves, and retire.
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