The Year Santa Came Visiting
Dear Future Children,
I have a story to tell you. Believe me when I say its true, because it is. I once met Santa Claus; he was drunk driving across the sky. He was about to land on my terrace but missed it, because…drunk. I asked him why he was so drunk, he said Ho Ho Ho, little Winny from Pooh, and then he started laughing and made Winy the Pooh jokes. Look, I get it, I have an unfortunate name and so does my village, does not mean I will stand this mockery at the hands of a fat, drunk slob who passes judgments on little children. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind but then he started unfolding his duffle bag, it had gifts, so I shut up.
I thought that if this fatso does exist, because believe you me I knew it for sure he didn’t, his gifts must be real too, right? Wrong. Turns out, he “forgot” his gifts at his friend’s place, which is where he got drunk, just so you know. Like that excuse could fool me. I come first in my class; it’s not that easy to fool me. His duffle bag had more alcohol. I am pretty sure he dumped my share of gifts at his friend’s place and now his friend’s children have claimed all the “good stuff”. Not that I had asked him to get me anything. You see I did not believe in Santa Claus up until this moment. Anyway, what’s gone is gone.
Life was better when I did not believe in Santa Claus. Anything is better than this Ho Ho Ho-ing drunkard who has been yelling Joy to the world at the top of his voice. I told him if the Lord had come, he would have slapped him. No lord is here, only Winny. And he finished my sentence with a “From Pooh” and asked me if I’d like some honey. That loser!
Anyway, like a good kid born to perpetually drunk parents, I was adept at handling the situation. I ran to the kitchen and fetched him some lemon and asked him to suck on it. And made some very strong black coffee for him. I wanted him to sober down, I had questions about the North Pole and how he managed to get so many “elves” working for him for free. What kind of a fucked world that was where labour was free. Isn’t that too dictatorial of him? And how was it that the world wasn’t seeing him for what he was, a drunk, bad mouthed dictator, who probably was responsible for half the road rage cases around Christmas. He was no floating angel. I had seen him for real. And it was my duty to report it to the world.
But the bugger wouldn’t buzz; he refused to drink coffee and instead started singing Strangers in the night, exchanging glances, wondering in the night, what were the chances. I told him there were no chances. And it was highly inappropriate of him to sing such double meaning songs. I can’t say he cared much for it. Something in your eyes, he sang, was so inviting. Something in your smile was so exciting; something in my heart told me I must have you. It was a bit unsettling, really. Sitting on Santa’s lap was about to get a whole new meaning. But then he shut up. Not sure why. He did. And then he started crying, like a baby. His already over pink nose was bursting with the colour red. Not so Ho Ho Ho, after all. I asked him what the matter was. Told me Frank Sinatara was dead and he was pretty shook up with the news. I told him it’s been sixteen years since his death, he just said “oh” and asked me if anyone else had died since Sinatra. Many people I said, unsure of how to break the news of several thousand people who had died since Sinatra.
So where do you think people go when they die, he asked me. I said, look Santa, as depressed as you may be, I have plans for Christmas, and discussing the destruction of the world isn’t one of them. I am not sure they go anywhere, I don’t believe in heaven or hell or all that balderdash. Balderdash, he repeated after me, looking puzzled. Drunk Santa clearly never went to school. And this guy was supposed to judge my good deeds from bad. Preposterous.
No, but seriously, he said, you must believe in something. What is your belief system, if you don’t believe in Santa and you don’t believe in hell and heaven, what do believe in? Where will you go, if I kill you tonight? The talk, as you could tell, was beginning to creep me out. Was Santa here to kill me? I said I would go to Sinatra and started walking back to my room. I was done with the lunatic. But he wasn’t done with me. He pulled me back and I found myself on his lap. Scratching his beard, he sighed loudly. I am tired of all the whiny children who demand gifts every year as if I owe them something. Those little dirtbags, one of them left a hot iron grate right below the chimney last year. I have a burn on my bum that still hurts. One of them tried to poison my milk, it was a threat, if I didn’t give him what he wanted, I would end up dead. You know it’s the sheer lack of respect that’s beginning to exhaust me.
I told him it was the sheer amount of talking he was doing that was beginning to exhaust me. But I agreed to this one thing. Children, other than me of course, always have been annoying as fuck. He said I was quite a pill. I agreed. What choice did I have, I asked him. Smart kids have it hard here. All these kids want are their dollhouses and XBoxes. I have no time for such silliness. We shook hands on that and soon I found myself “flying”. The fat bastard had handed me over my present after all. It was the best Christmas ever. We shook hands and I said this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Clichéd, yelled the asshole and flew away.
Yours,
Winny the Grandma