Uh Oh—A Greeting Card From The North Pole?

 

Ordinarily, I’d love this festive time of year. Twinkling lights hanging from all the trees on a cold, breezy, winter night.

Never mind that you can’t see their reflection on the wet streets below because of all the bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic, butI expect that sort of thing at Christmas time.

epa03970663 Christmas lights on Regent Street in London, Britain, 29 November 2013. EPA/ANDY RAIN ** Usable by LA, CT and MoD ONLY **

epa03970663 Christmas lights on Regent Street in London, Britain, 29 November 2013. EPA/ANDY RAIN ** Usable by LA, CT and MoD ONLY **

Along with all the holiday shoppers in the malls. Pushing, shoving, jockeying for position creating those long lines I always seem to get stuck in.

But, like I said, it’s Christmas time and I expect it—ATCHOO! Uh…I tink I’ve caught anutter nasty code in my dose. (Honk!)

Yet, I’ve come to expect that sort of thing too, during the season of…of…of—ATCHOO!—giving.

Honk, Pfft, and Sniffle. Speaking of which, I’d sure love to find out who gave me this miserable code—SO I COULD GIVE IT BACK TO THEM!

All I do know is, is I better get a stocking full of NyQuil this year—you know, the nighttime cold and flu medicine—along with lots of chicken soup too.

Wanna know what didn’t I expect, though? A Christmas card from the North Pole.

My wife and I arrived home from a pleasant evening out at a little Christmas soiree. She went to check the mailbox and came back with a pile of mail that even Santa Claus would find overwhelming.

“Hey…there’s a Christmas card in here for you dear” my wife said, “and it’s from the North Pole! Who do you know at the North Pole?” she asked.

Poor woman. Guess she never heard of Mr. Narwhal.

All the same, I dropped my Airborne tablet—completely missing my glass of water in the process—and exclaimed, “Silly girl, don’t you know I have connections everywhere?”

Oh I make no secret of the fact I’d hoped Santa Claus would write me again. But in my wildest dreams I never truly believed he would. I mean, not after the infamous blowtorch incident. But we won’t go there… I was only nine at the time, anyway.

Besides, I think there should be an expiration date on that kind of thing, don’t you?

Back to the card. Naturally I was excited. I’d felt my massive letter write-in campaign to Santa over the past year, called—PROTEST 2014—helped the ‘Big Guy’ to see the error of his ways.

This, for not giving me my Christmas wish last year. Or any other year for that matter.

Oh, the wish?

For one million dollars in unmarked bills—to be dropped down a chimney of my own choosing on Christmas Eve.

I could have asked for two million dollars, but I felt why push it and have him think me greedy. So I told him I’d settle for ONE. After all, I’m not the extortionist Mrs. Claus and all those horribly pathetic, itsy bitsy, teenie weenie, tiny, little minded elves have made me out to be. I’m just an ordinary guy whose name is etched in stone on the naughty list, trying to get what’s coming to me.

Who do those elves think they are anyway? His legal counsel!

So, what did fatso send me last year? A buck, that’s what! Oh no, not a full grown deer, but a WHOLE ONE DOLLAR BILL! I found it at the bottom of my Christmas stocking along with a note stating “Son, you made the list again. Love; Santa.” And he wants me to love him for that?

And at the bottom of the page—IN VERY FINE PRINT—it said…

THE NAUGHTY LIST!

Well that was the last straw. I just knew this year was gonna be different. So I lunged for the card my wife was holding— practically knocking her onto our corner table. Fortunately,  her incredible sense of balance helped her find the floor, instead.

Now, with envelope in hand, I eagerly read…

“Greetings from the North POLL!”

(A side note here. One of my friends, Sarah Ferguson (no, not the Duchess of York), she caught this misspelling. Check out her funny response in the comment section below. Though, I’m sure it was because someone spiked my eggnog—which by the way, I don’t drink.)

It card continued…

“You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen. Comet and Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen. But do you recall… the most famous reindeer of all?”

I looked up and thought, “Where’s the old fart going with this?”

“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, he has a very shiny nose, tells me there’s a guy impersonating him, also has A RED SHINY NOSE. Now all of the other reindeer, tend to laugh and shout out a name. And it isn’t Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer, care to play the guessing game?—Hint, hint…his picture is on your blog, and he has a Red Nose, too! Fancy that—MAYBE IT EVEN GROWS!”

Then he asked, “Do you know who he might be—donkey brain? WELL… DO YOU PUNK?”

I looked at my wife… still seated on the carpet.

Slowly, she came to her feet, “Honey, what is it?” she asked “You look as white as snow!” I turned towards her with my eyes, as wide as saucers. My words barely escaped my lips…

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s just possible Santa Claus is, CLINT EASTWOOD!”

I dropped the card in shock, and continued.

“And you know what else?” I think Santa and Rudolph are out to get me!”

Laughing (skeptically), my wife nervously replied “Oh… that’s nonsense, honey.”

I picked up the card and asked “Really? Well feast your eyes on this! She stared at the card for a moment. Then I asked, “Whad’ya say now?”

“They take a nice picture?” she responded.

But what really concerns me is; I can’t shake this nasty feeling that I might not get my million dollars—AGAIN! I just pray none of you ever make THE NAUGHTY LIST like I have.

You might never make parole! (ATCHOO!)

“Honey! Can I have another cup of NyQuil! On second thought—JUST BRING THE WHOLE BOTTLE!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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