"Get Back To Me"
*Note: this is from the Xmas archives from about '05 or so...but I didn't have time to prep something else, so you gets this 'un now*
Andy Williams (and others) sang it's the most wonderful time of the year.
Santa hears that these days and winces.
But, he perseveres. Tradition and public expectations are hard to buck. Easier to get a reindeer to do that, but I digress.
To the newly-dubbed and totally unofficial (for the season only) Santa Claus email addy (aka, one of my email addys) , came an email today with the title "Get Back To Me". It was from none other than Chief Anthony Mayor.
It's basically the same old same old, with the same old typos and spelling gaffes; and it demands immediate attention because time is shot. I think he meant "short", but whatever.
As if Santa hasn't got enough irons in the fire (the elves are trying to prevent him from playing any more bad golf), now he has Nigerian email scamming Chief Mayors demanding "immediate attention".
And Rodney Dangerfield thought he got no respect.
But Santa knows that the Missus won't brook him ignoring a wish letter. Especially now. So Santa returned the following response, diplomatically balancing answering something of a wish with providing the reality of the times in his suave, debonair style:
Chief Mayor Tony:
Damn, that's an impressive title you got yourself there. Some mayors are called "chief" by their adoring and/or grovelling subords; I oughta know, especially in the latter case. But you have twice the title of a regular chief or mayor. While it tends to be a bit redumbdant, that's strangely in keeping with your email to me, and has some bearing on my response.
Chief/Mayor, I am so sorry but you present me with this offer to give me the business at the absolute WORST possible time of the year for me. You see, I have a 24/7 gift preparation service that is running behind schedule, with elves working triple time, getting me in all sorts of hot water with elves rights groups, payroll, my comptroller....you know how it is; you're a chief.
And it gets worse: three of my reindeer are questionable for the 'Big Night' (two with muscle strains, and one with cramps...who knew?). Training replacements is no easy matter, as flying reindeer aren't a dime a doe-zen.
See what I just did there? No...I'm sure you don't. That's a little North Pole humor, but I digress.
And while I'm busting my hump to get the production and shipping end ready, the Missus is being hounded on the administrative and PR end by animal rights folks, labor rights folks, the PC folks who want the mere mention of "Christmas" banned in public, those incredibly pesky ACLU types who don't think I go far enough to represent everyone well enough to avoid offending SOMEBODY, SOMEWHERE, the OSHA folks, etc.
Add to that, my having to file flight plans in countless national airspaces, taking into account "no fly zones" where some trigger-happy software program is waiting to put an anti-air missile up Rudolph's tail pipe, and those nit-picky homeowners' associations and their "no rooftop landings" rules. And on, and on...
Finally, there's the wee matter of my having to cover the globe to reach every good boy and girl's homes (another bone of contention with the ACLU...the "too much time on their hands" clods) in the 31 hours I am allocated according to this silly thing designed by a Roman tyrant called a calendar, over 2000 years ago. In so doing, I have to violate more than a few laws of science, Nature, and piss off the global warming crowd with my "alleged" contributing to the ozone hole with my and the reindeer's flatulence.
Call it rude if you want: but you try eating a few billion cookies and drinking an ocean of left-out beverages of various types, and see if you don't get gas. The reindeer don't fancy hauling my ever-expanding ass all over the stratosphere, either.
Bottom line, Chief/Mayor: I am just not available right now for you to give the business to.
But in having perused a proof-read copy of your missive (I have an elfen secretary who is positively anal-retentive about spelling and grammar), I find that there is something I can leave in your...er...whatever it is you use for a stocking over the firepit. Maybe a meerkat hide, I dunno (I won't tell the animal rights folks). Anyway, I think you'll benefit from a spellcheck program for your computer. And I also think you'll benefit from a brand new case of Handi-wipes, for when (or if) you remove your head from your ass, especially when it comes to sending out fourth-rate scams from Third World countries, you moronic turd.
The Handi-wipes may give you a whole new perspective. Try and use 'em.
Just so's you know that Santa isn't always jolly; I have a public image to keep up, even when shrieking rugrats are peeing all over me. But the public ain't here now; it's just you and me, Chief/Mayor. So permit me to tell you, in all genuine and season's greetings, heart-felt candor, that you, Chief/Mayor, suck ass.
Merry Christmas, outhouse breath.
"Jolly" Ol' St. Nick (and other "nick" names...*snort*)
If a reply is received, you'll be the third to know. If, that is, my anal-retentive elfen secretary doesn't have an apoplexy trying to decipher it, first.
*Chief-Mayor Tony did reply...but not coherently: I got a return email with no text. Left the poor buggers speechless, I did*