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A week or so ago I emailed [email protected] with my young nephew's Christmas wishlist -
'Dear Santa,
My nephew wants this-and-this-and-this-and-this-and-this-and-' (blah, blah, blah, ad nauseum).
Yet just this morning Santa emailed me back to inform that he "can't be bothered anymore!".
Apparently, he's sick to the back-teeth of the whole Christmas process.
"The over-commercialisation of the festive season has finally sickened me to the core!" he ranted.
"All those rugrats demanding their super-duper materialistic wares can just kiss my fat hairy behind! - Sod 'em!"
"They can stick their Playstations and their Xcubes where the sun don't shine!"
According to the email, he's already sacked all his little elf helpers, and he's seriously considering selling Rudolf and the other raindeer to the local abbatoir.
He says he's filed for a divorce from Mrs.Claus, who he refers to as "that nagging battle-axe from hell!", and he's due to catch a flight to Jamaica in the next couple of days, where he plans to (quote) "become an expert layabout and sample the fleshy wonders of big-assed black women!"
He ended his email with the message: "I've had a gut-full of this damned snow! I'm going to sunny Jamaica and no one can stop me! Somewhere there's a giant spliff with my name on it! No more squeezing down filthy chinmeys for me! Spread the word, and cheerio forever!"
So that's it. Christmas is cancelled. The dream is over. Santa has left the building.
Leave the tinsel in the box, don't bother hanging up your stocking, and forget about investing in that midget pine tree - because this year, and for the forseeable future, the little-uns ain't gonna get what they want on the morn of the 25th.
Sorry to be the bringer of bad tidings, but I suppose it had to happen one day.
'Dear Santa,
My nephew wants this-and-this-and-this-and-this-and-this-and-' (blah, blah, blah, ad nauseum).
Yet just this morning Santa emailed me back to inform that he "can't be bothered anymore!".
Apparently, he's sick to the back-teeth of the whole Christmas process.
"The over-commercialisation of the festive season has finally sickened me to the core!" he ranted.
"All those rugrats demanding their super-duper materialistic wares can just kiss my fat hairy behind! - Sod 'em!"
"They can stick their Playstations and their Xcubes where the sun don't shine!"
According to the email, he's already sacked all his little elf helpers, and he's seriously considering selling Rudolf and the other raindeer to the local abbatoir.
He says he's filed for a divorce from Mrs.Claus, who he refers to as "that nagging battle-axe from hell!", and he's due to catch a flight to Jamaica in the next couple of days, where he plans to (quote) "become an expert layabout and sample the fleshy wonders of big-assed black women!"
He ended his email with the message: "I've had a gut-full of this damned snow! I'm going to sunny Jamaica and no one can stop me! Somewhere there's a giant spliff with my name on it! No more squeezing down filthy chinmeys for me! Spread the word, and cheerio forever!"
So that's it. Christmas is cancelled. The dream is over. Santa has left the building.
Leave the tinsel in the box, don't bother hanging up your stocking, and forget about investing in that midget pine tree - because this year, and for the forseeable future, the little-uns ain't gonna get what they want on the morn of the 25th.
Sorry to be the bringer of bad tidings, but I suppose it had to happen one day.
Heh, this has turned into a kind of 'Carry On Christmas' innuendo thread.
According to legend Rudolf has a big red one.
He's got a massive sack as well
Must be messy
Snow? uh-huh
Must be messy
Snow? uh-huh
The sagacious one wrote:
> Rumour is he got made redundant because he kept emptying his entire
> sack, everytime he came down someone's chimney.
I never liked it when he did that down my chimney............
> Rumour is he got made redundant because he kept emptying his entire
> sack, everytime he came down someone's chimney.
I never liked it when he did that down my chimney............
Bummer, i guess that means i will have to leave my presents up in the loft.
Rumour is he got made redundant because he kept emptying his entire sack, everytime he came down someone's chimney.
A week or so ago I emailed [email protected] with my young nephew's Christmas wishlist -
'Dear Santa,
My nephew wants this-and-this-and-this-and-this-and-this-and-' (blah, blah, blah, ad nauseum).
Yet just this morning Santa emailed me back to inform that he "can't be bothered anymore!".
Apparently, he's sick to the back-teeth of the whole Christmas process.
"The over-commercialisation of the festive season has finally sickened me to the core!" he ranted.
"All those rugrats demanding their super-duper materialistic wares can just kiss my fat hairy behind! - Sod 'em!"
"They can stick their Playstations and their Xcubes where the sun don't shine!"
According to the email, he's already sacked all his little elf helpers, and he's seriously considering selling Rudolf and the other raindeer to the local abbatoir.
He says he's filed for a divorce from Mrs.Claus, who he refers to as "that nagging battle-axe from hell!", and he's due to catch a flight to Jamaica in the next couple of days, where he plans to (quote) "become an expert layabout and sample the fleshy wonders of big-assed black women!"
He ended his email with the message: "I've had a gut-full of this damned snow! I'm going to sunny Jamaica and no one can stop me! Somewhere there's a giant spliff with my name on it! No more squeezing down filthy chinmeys for me! Spread the word, and cheerio forever!"
So that's it. Christmas is cancelled. The dream is over. Santa has left the building.
Leave the tinsel in the box, don't bother hanging up your stocking, and forget about investing in that midget pine tree - because this year, and for the forseeable future, the little-uns ain't gonna get what they want on the morn of the 25th.
Sorry to be the bringer of bad tidings, but I suppose it had to happen one day.
'Dear Santa,
My nephew wants this-and-this-and-this-and-this-and-this-and-' (blah, blah, blah, ad nauseum).
Yet just this morning Santa emailed me back to inform that he "can't be bothered anymore!".
Apparently, he's sick to the back-teeth of the whole Christmas process.
"The over-commercialisation of the festive season has finally sickened me to the core!" he ranted.
"All those rugrats demanding their super-duper materialistic wares can just kiss my fat hairy behind! - Sod 'em!"
"They can stick their Playstations and their Xcubes where the sun don't shine!"
According to the email, he's already sacked all his little elf helpers, and he's seriously considering selling Rudolf and the other raindeer to the local abbatoir.
He says he's filed for a divorce from Mrs.Claus, who he refers to as "that nagging battle-axe from hell!", and he's due to catch a flight to Jamaica in the next couple of days, where he plans to (quote) "become an expert layabout and sample the fleshy wonders of big-assed black women!"
He ended his email with the message: "I've had a gut-full of this damned snow! I'm going to sunny Jamaica and no one can stop me! Somewhere there's a giant spliff with my name on it! No more squeezing down filthy chinmeys for me! Spread the word, and cheerio forever!"
So that's it. Christmas is cancelled. The dream is over. Santa has left the building.
Leave the tinsel in the box, don't bother hanging up your stocking, and forget about investing in that midget pine tree - because this year, and for the forseeable future, the little-uns ain't gonna get what they want on the morn of the 25th.
Sorry to be the bringer of bad tidings, but I suppose it had to happen one day.