A New Original Holiday Tale, Part Two—The Almost Thrilling Final

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Welcome to Part Two of a new original holiday classic that everyone will be talking about … down at the hobo encampment near the railroad tracks.

“Baxter the Snowman and Three Dance Around the Truth Sugarplum Fairies.”

It’s written by a new—but brilliant up and coming author—who bears a striking resemblance to some character with a red nose.

Part One of our story introduced us to, Baxter, the partially melted snowman who is living (if you can call it that) on the outskirts of the Egyptian Desert.

One Christmas Eve he encounters three Sugarplum Fairies who are anything but sugar and spice and everything nice.

They ask Baxter to help them in funding their quest to find “The Sacred Snowball of Azhar Malik” and in return they promise him a portion of the fabled snowball to replace his current languidly melting lower torso.

All Roads Lead To The Kitchen

As you may recall, the Sacred Snowball is supposedly made of Folgers Instant Crystals, “They’re magically delicious and melt in your coffee… NOT IN YOUR SAND.”

We pick up our story with the ANIMATED, Tim Burton, now narrating.

P.S.—he can’t sing a lick so no holiday songs here.

Take it away, Tim!

Huh? Oh, yeah, right. Let me see… where were you now? Oh yeah.

So without further adieu, I present to you … one Dickens of a Christmas Story.

When we left off, Baxter (now a slowly liquefying snowman), was telling three odious Sugarplum Fairies that he barely remembers the fable of the sacred snowball of Azhar Malik, but that his mother sometimes would read to him about it as he drifted off to sleep—back when he was but a small snowflake in his mothers eye.

Baxter, is unaware that the mischievous trio of fairies are actually rejects from Fairies Local 79—fired for dancing poorly without a license.

They’ve been traveling the desert using the fable of the “Sacred Snowball of Azhar Malik” as part of a nefarious ponzi scheme that they hatched up to defraud people (and snowmen) of all their worldly goods.

Except for items made in China—for which they have an aversion.

In fact, the local nomad news recently reported that a Mongolian camel dealer by the name of, Herman T. Zidlemeyer, had recently ran into the three crafty old fairies while he was crossing the desert on a horse with no name.

He said the three claimed an uber driver left them stranded out there with only a snowballs chance in hell of escaping the desert heat.

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They also claimed they were in posession of  the Famed Sacred Snowball of Azhar Malik (a ball of styrofoam made up to look like a snowball), and were willing to swap it with Zidlemeyer for his horse—who shall remain nameless.

Zidlemeyer barely crawled back home to his wife who, recognizing the fabled snowball’s value—that of being totally worthless except for when being used as a MacGuffin in a Christmas fable—told her husband to put it out on the porch of their yurt—or tent.

There, overnight, it melted and eventually became a great puddle in the middle of the Oasis.

Better known as “The Oasis of Balderdash.”

Zedlemeyer thought himself lucky—the bad deal could have cost him his yurt.

Anyway, Baxter, suffered from brain freezes (a condition not uncommon to snowmen), and couldn’t remember if he’d seen the nomad news report concerning the Zedlemeyer incident or not.

So, wanting to help the (LITTLE WINGED HARPIES) fairies, Baxter slipped over to an ATM at the “First Dust and Loan of Jeruselum” and fortunately, not having to deal with a frozen account, was able to withdraw every single penny (married ones too) from his savings—leaving only nickles, dimes, and quarters to his name…

And fifty thousand shares of Frigidaire stock—which at the time, were going for about $900.00 a share.

The three (wicked) little fairies were unable to contain their joy at having pulled off a fast one on a (poor but living comfortably) handicapped snowman. So much so, that they made a fateful mistake.

They began break-dancing—something no licensed Sugarplum Fairy would ever be caught DEAD doing.

ALIVE, perhaps? But DEAD? No.

Baxter, not known for his dancing skills—what snowman is, after all, they don’t have legs, unless perhaps, they’re named Frosty—tried to join in and dance with the larcenous trio.

That’s when Santa Claus came flying in—DOING 95 IN A 35 MILE PER HOUR ZONE!

Naturally, the cops, who were hot on his tail, swooped right in and arrested the whole lot of em.

Baxter, the fairies (who were trying to spin away from justice), and old lead foot himself—Santa Claus.

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Baxter, was later released on his own recognizance when it became clear that he couldn’t stand the heat. Even got his corncob pipe from L.L. Bean—BECAUSE SANTA DELIVERS.

Santa? Oh he got off for good behavior.

You didn’t really expect a group of elves to rat out their boss as having his name on THE NAUGHTY LIST now … did you?

And what became of the three Sugarplum Fairies? Well, they weren’t so lucky.

The three, when caught, said they had found this manger thanks to the brightest star they had ever seen guiding them directly to it.

Claimed that there was this couple (a husband and wife) wondering the desert in the middle of the night. That the young woman was pregnant and riding a donkey. Said they were looking for a hotel room to bed down in for the night.

The fairies swapped the manger for the couple’s donkey, then tried to pin this tall tale—ON THE DONKEY.

Can you believe it?

Fortunately, the cops weren’t buying it.

But you will… won’t you?

 

Merry Christmas To All, And To All—GET BUSY WRAPPING!

THE YEAR WITHOUT A SANTA CLAUS -www.tvguide.com

Twas the night before Christmas, the last minute shopper had been out and about. Came home with his packages begging help from his spouse. Looking for tape and scissors and knowing not where, he had hoped to avoid the gift-wrapping nightmare.

Yes, Christmas Eve is finally here folks. But, we better watch out, and we better not cry, we better not pout I’m telling you why, Santa Claus has finally skipped town. And where you ask, is Jolly Old St. Nick?

Retired.

That’s right, you heard it here first. Kris Kringle has—like Elvis—left the building. He’s given up his North Pole distribution center for an extended stay in the Florida Keys. Sub-contracted the whole workshop out to the PUC—Parents Under Contract. You and I are the new CEO’s of Xmas-Inc. In charge of getting gifts under the tree in time for Christmas morning.

You, me, the Post Office, FedEx, UPS, DHL…etc.

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And who gets the elves you ask? That would be the unemployment office. Bad break for the little guys.

And Santa? Well by downsizing and putting his annually lucrative gift-giving enterprise into receivership; with a deferred compensation arrangement including a 401K, rather generous pension plan, substantial benefit package, and executive stock compensations; plus the pending sale of his North Pole properties, he probably stands to make out like a bandit.

In addition to that, his Swiss Bank account is magically drawing 6%!

You wanna guess who’s left holding that bag? Bingo! Correct, you and I… the public. However, we do get the satisfaction of knowing that our children will have a Merry Christmas. Not to mention that we the adults, will have lighter hearts and wallets.

But, I saw this coming years ago.

Every Christmas Eve Santa would show up later and later. Then my parents would say, Well he’s not gonna show until you go to bed.” Who were they kidding? What did they have to hide? Who were they trying to protect?

That should have been my first clue that Santa was eyeing an early retirement.

Sometimes they’d say: “Kids, Santa Claus has way too many deliveries tonight, around the world trips take time.”—especially if you’re using a sleigh.

Or, “There’s too many holiday travelers in the air and that’s causing flight delay’s. So Santa’s probably in a holding pattern with other air-traffic.”

But my all-time favorite excuse for his being late came the year of the big snow storm; “He’s probably going to need the help of a red-nosed reindeer this year.” That’s a good one.

Over the years—ever so gradually—the job of Christmas delivery began falling to us. At first, I’d just put on a red suit and fake beard. But then I started adding inches to my waist-line with those darn cookies. Then one year, I stuck in the darn chimney.

Where my oldest son found me on Christmas morning.

Of course, there was the expected blubbering when he realized I wasn’t really Santa Claus. However, the tears soon dried up when I told him it didn’t mean any interruption in the flow of high-priced goods for his Christmas holiday.

I carefully explained to him there might even be some hush money in it for him.

Naturally, my son was excited by this prospect and immediately initiated a notarized contract—I was astounded to find him a notary public, too! He encouraged me to sign on the threat of exposure to the other kids. I did as directed and was surprised to find the contract stipulated—among other things—that lots and lots of toys were still part of the deal.

So—fellow board members—Santa Claus has made it official; he’s no longer the front man for Christmas—something we’ve all known for quite some time now, anyway

Nevertheless, that leaves us with a very perplexing question to answer. If Santa Claus hasn’t been doing all that frequent flyer on Christmas Eve…

Then who’s the fraud Norad’s been tracking all these years?

AND WITH THAT PUZZLING CONUNDRUM, A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL, A GOOD NIGHT!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Uh Oh—A Greeting Card From The North Pole

 

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Ordinarily I love this festive time of year. Twinkling lights hanging from all the trees, never mind that you can’t see their reflection on the wet streets below because of all the bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic.

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

But that’s expected at Christmas, like holiday shoppers pushing and shoving their way forward, jockeying for position in front of me—the last guy standing in the long line to the counter.

It’s Christmas though, and I expect it.

“ATCHOO!”

I tink I’ve caught a nudder nasty code in my dose.

“Honk!” just a nudder by-product of da, da, ATCHOO! Season of giving.”

“Honk, pfft, sniffle.”

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

All I do know is, I sure hope I get a stocking full of NyQuil this year. You know, the nighttime cold and flu medicine.

However, what didn’t I expect to get this year was a Christmas card from the North Pole.

When 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.

Sorting through all the bills (that always come just before the holidays) was this card.

“Hey, sweetie, you received a Christmas card from the North Pole! Who do you know at the North Pole?” she asked.

Guess she’s never heard of Mr. Narwhal.

I dropped my Airborne tablet—completely missing the glass of water in the process—and raced for the card.

Santa sent me a card? All must be forgiven! Or, so I thought. I mean, there was that infamous blowtorch incident with his sleigh and all (it was in all the papers), and a few elves got a little scorched here and there.

And then there was that big burnt bag of toys and all. Well, you know, accidents do happen, right?

But hey, I was only thirty-nine at the time! Could happen to anyone, right? Besides, I think there should be an expiration date on that sort of thing, don’t you?

http://www.jinglebellejackson.comAnyway, back to the card.

Anyway, I had hoped that my massive write-in campaign to Santa over the past year (better known as PROTEST 2014) would help the ‘Big Guy’ see the error of his ways and remove me from the list, not to mention dismissing that lawsuit he filed against me (settlement pending), and hopefully granting my Christmas wish for this year.

The wish?

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

I would have asked for two million, but I felt that my be pushing it a little, and didn’t wanna have him think me greedy.

And this in spite of Mrs. Claus and all those horribly pathetic, itsy bitsy, teeny weenie, tiny minded little elves painting me out to be some kind of extortionist.

I mean, who do those elves think they are anyway? Santa’s legal counsel!

Last year, fatso sent me only a buck. ONE WHOLE DOLLAR! And it was at the bottom of my Christmas stocking too, along with a note stating “Son, you’re still on the naughty list. Love; Santa.”

Love, Santa? He wants me to love him for that?

And then there was the fine print which said, “Remember the blowtorch incident?”

Well, they do say elephants never forget?

http://www.jinglebellejackson.com

But, I was sure this year would 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—and grabbed for my card.

With envelope now in hand, I eagerly read…

“Greetings from the North POLL!”

I should note here, that my friend, Sarah Ferguson (no, not the Duchess of York), caught this misspelling. Check out her funny response in the comment section below. I’m sure my misspelling of pole was simply because someone spiked my eggnog—which, by the way, I don’t drink.

The 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, who has a very shiny nose, tells me there’s a guy just like him, also with A BIG RED NOSE. Now all of my North Pole Reindeer, like to laugh and shout his name. And it isn’t Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer, care to play the guessing game?

Hint, hint…his picture in shown on your blog as the author, and he also happens to have a Red Nose too. Maybe, IT EVEN GROW! Lying to the police like that. I hope your insurance rates go up, dummy. Now do you know who my reindeer were singing about? Donkey brain! WELL… DO YOU PUNK?”

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My wife (still on the carpet) looked up at me and said “Honey, are you alright? You look white as snow!”

I turned and looked at her, my eyes wide as saucers. The words barely escaped my lips…

“I’m not sure, but I think Santa Claus might actually be Dirty Harry! Or, possibly Clint Eastwood, but in either case, I think I’m still in trouble.

“Honey, what in the world are you talking about?” she asked.

“Well, I suspect Santa and Rudolph are out to get me!”

“Oh… that’s nonsense, honey. Don’t be ridiculous, Santa and Rudolph? They’re not even real!”

“Oh really, you think so, huh? Well, just feast your eyes on this!” and I handed her the card and asked, “What do you have to say now, huh?”

“They take a nice picture?”

I don’t think I’m going to be getting a million dollars this year, or ever! All I can say, is just pray none of you ever make that naughty list of his. You might never make parole!

“ATCHOO!”

“Honey! Can you please bring me a cup of Nyquil. On second thought—BRING THE WHOLE BOTTLE!”