Don’t believe the hype. There is nothing joyful about being an elf. In fact, better adjectives would be pathetic, pitiful and suicidal. It’s hard to make a legal viable career choice when you are an elf. Options are very limited when you are height challenged and have a crazy high-pitched voice. More so, when you are a registered sex offender.
Two days ago, Rip Van Winkle VI had woken from a twenty-year nap. It comes as no surprise; he was undernourished and weak. He had a six-foot gray beard. There is no way to sugar coat this, he looked half dead. He was fortunate to have been discovered by a team of psychologists, as opposed to a gaggle of cannibals. Long story short, first cold day, as good a day to treat one’s self, thus annual office skating party. The group found Rip Van Winkle VI, who was in a wandering stupor as they gathered under a snow-covered oak tree.
It was 1621, a few months after the very first Thanksgiving feast. Technically, it was a harvest feast, and not the Thanksgiving feast we are familiar with. If not for Wampanoag tribe leader, Massanoit, there would have been zilch to harvest, and that zilch would have been the Pilgrim population to boot. Massanoit felt pity on the simple Pilgrims and taught them how to farm earlier in the year. It saved their lives.
It was the worst of times in America, bloody body parts strewn in the streets, half-eaten sandwiches rapidly growing mold, and reruns. It was cold; steam formed and rose from the fresher corpses. It was the new “typical” Midwestern Christmas. It was just ten years ago! A wave of paranoia accompanied by the brutal sub-zero polar vortex winds swept through the streets, packed with last minute holiday shoppers, who bravely sidestepped all the decomposing flesh lying on the street like so much dog manure.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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