Santa’s bungalow was warm and cozy. By warm, it was loud and obnoxious from Santa’s thunderous snore. By cozy, it reeked to high heaven. Stink lines exuded from every possible orifice of St. Nick sleeping hard on the recliner. Surrounding the chair, three empty bottles of Wild Turkey, a fourth bottle one-third full clenched in his hand, resting on his enormous belly.
A high-pitched whine escaped from Santa’s ass, and it added to the stench like shit-scented incense to a broken outhouse next door to a crap factory. Keep in mind, Santa is just like you and me, in that after a hard day of work, it’s time to drink and unwind, repeat. Unlike you and me, he works one day a year and owns elves like the old South owned slaves.
Santa was in deep slumber when the ancient carolers congregated at his doorstep. They sang celestial harmonies so beautiful, so transcendent. You would have to be inhuman not to be moved. The music tugged at your inner child. Santa’s eyes opened wide. He slowly stood up, took a long swig and swung the front door wide.
Santa leaned back and his pale face brightened, rosy red filling his cheeks. A solitary tear formed and he choked. Profound warmth emanated from everyone, cheer and good will locked arms before performing a doe-see-doe. Santa prepared to ho ho ho, but instead, heaved the acidic contents of his stomach all over the carolers. A different sort of profound warmth overtook a postcard moment.