It’s Christmas Eve and the evening when we—Nordic people—celebrate Christmas, because well… why exactly should we wait another day if we don’t have to?
Exactly.
Which is why I’ll leave you with a little story—don’t worry beije, it’s a short one—for now. I’ll write a longer post some other day but right now, I just want to celebrate Christmas.
Santa Goes Medieval on Everyone’s Asses
Our story starts as any other with the arrival of Christmas Eve and the first of the two nights that Santa has to work. You see kids, some countries celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve and some celebrate it on Christmas Day. Which meant that Santa had to work twice as much as you might think and still that ungrateful ass hole would complain about “unhealthy long work hours”, despite sitting on his fat ass the remaining 363 days.
Anyway.
Like all the years before, Santa had just finished his pre-flight meal and was feeling as bloated as he usually felt—complaining about that as well, of course—and was getting up from the table to check on his sledge.
Little did Santa know that Frosty had been snooping around the night before.
You see for Santa was in great debt, so Frosty The Snowdouche had decided to wreck his sledge.
“Oh no, oh crap! Why would that fucker do that?”, Santa cried out realising that he would have no way to deliver presents to the people who celebrated Christmas.
“Meh. Fuck ’em”, he said to himself wondering what Krampus was doing tonight. Maybe they could get together for a poker-night?
But just as Santa as about to give up he remembered that the Welsh dragon Y Ddraig Goch owed him a favour from a few years back, so Santa called him up, “Yo bitch, my sledge’s all fucked. I needz a favour, word?”
So Christmas was saved—well sort of at least—for Santa came, riding on a giant fire-breathing dragon, and delivered presents to all the people that survived the ensuing massacre.
The End.
Merry Christmas to all. And to all, a good night.