140 Characters Till Christmas

drunk Santa on floor

Where’s my cell phone?

Starting sometime in November, the bitter cracking cold of the North Pole reaches a point where it has gone as low as it will go, and in that frigid time, there are remarkable days when the wind disappears completely. Those are the days when the elves go outside and play volleyball to relax, divided into red and green teams.

During one such game, the head elf, Galston, who had been watching, came in to get warm. “Santa baby!” he said, “Where’s that special hot chocolate?” Galston gave a big wink to Santa.

“Get a cup off the counter,” Santa said, then poured from a thermos into the elf’s cup.

Galston took a drink, looked up at Santa, and said, “Somebody isn’t delivering gifts with the usual festive holiday spirit.”

Santa paused a moment, then said, “Oh, OK.” He reached into a cabinet, brought out a bottle of rum, and poured a shot into Galston’s cup.

“Now that’s Merry Christmas!” Galston said, and with some effort he climbed up onto a high stool, to sit at the counter opposite Santa Claus. He took another drink, and said, “With that game going on out there, the Easter Bunny put a hundred bucks on the red team.”

“He’s here?” Santa exclaimed. “I’m supposed to be told when special visitors come.”

“Naw, he’s not here. One of the tech elves has been tweeting every couple of minutes, so Easter Bun is following the game.”

Santa looked puzzled and said, “The elf is doing what?”

“Tweeting. You know, on Twitter.”

“What’s a twitter?” Santa asked. “Sounds like some kind of German candy.”

“Are you kidding?” said Galston. “You don’t know what Twitter is?”

Galston explained Twitter as best he could to Santa Claus, who seemed skeptical, until Galston pulled out his cell phone to illustrate. He showed Santa the Twitter home page and all the people and events that could be followed. Santa was amazed to see that from all over the world, everyone’s slightest thoughts, no matter how truly slight indeed, could be instantly shared with everyone on earth. Galston went on to show Santa how to sign up for an account, which he immediately did.

“Now you got it, Santa,” Galston said, taking a swig from his cup. “Anything you got to say, you can share it. I bet you could have a million followers in no time.”

Galston left and Santa thought But I already have millions of followers. Still, maybe it was different on Twitter. He wondered what his first chirp should be. Or no, Galston hadn’t called it a chirp. It was . . . some kind of bird noise. Oh, right, tweet. What should his first tweet be?

He typed: “Hey, I’m a bird, I’m tweeting!” He sent the tweet, laughing as he did it, shaking like a bowl full of jelly. He took another drink of special hot chocolate and thought he should do another. He started typing again: “Who wants to buy some raggedy ass reindeer who smell like wet dogs after they’ve been flying all night?”

“Ha ha ha!” Santa laughed. He poured more rum into his cup and began typing: “If not for me, what kind of Christmas would you have? Huh? What if I brought everybody a box of spiders?”

“Ha ha ha ha!” He poured more rum, then drank straight from the bottle. “You’ve all been BAD! Don’t even bother getting up Christmas morning, because I’m coming around to STEAL from you!”

Everything was hilarious now. Santa sat grinning, took another hit from the rum bottle, then typed: “I’ve seen your mamas at night, and let’s just say, reindeer butts ain’t the only thing that’s ugly!!!”

“And some of your daddies snore and fart so much at night I can’t even get the reindeer to land on the roof. Sad!!!!!”

“I’m the Christmas Daddy!!!! You’re all pathetic! No presents for not if me if. Cocoochyx” He slumped back in his chair, passed out.

The next morning when Santa woke up, his head was clanging like Christmas bells, and his wife was standing looking down at him frowning. “You happy?” she asked. “You get a Twitter account and all you can think to do with it is show your ass to the world? If you can crawl to the kitchen I’ll give you breakfast.”

Later that morning, Galston came by and said, “Maybe I should have explained something, but I thought it would be obvious. There’s three circumstances when you shouldn’t send out tweets. When you’re drunk, when you’re sleepy, and when you’re stupid.”

“Can you bring me some aspirin?” Santa said.

“Somebody needs to give up the tweeting,” Galston said.

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