The story below is a guest post I wrote for my friend Kristen. She is the author of the Four Hens and a Rooster Blog and was silly enough to let me share the tale about how I took down ‘Jersey Santa.’
If you are new to the blog you might not know that I am the guy who likes to tell a good story (See samples below) or that there is a cancellation fee for unsubscribing to the blog.
Most people consider it bad form to slap a priest or pull a rabbi’s beard. They aren’t real keen on your telling Sister Mary that she has a rack that was made for sin and or suggesting that you can help her see god. 567 Ways To Tell A Better Story
The clown was drunk, surly and horny. Or should I say that he was in dire need of shagging Tinkerbell. Ok, her name wasn’t t really Tinkerbell but the performers at a kids birthday party don’t introduce themselves by their real names so you’ll forgive me if I can’t tell you whether she was Karen, Kathy, Tracey, Lacey or Stacey. The Flying Clown
A bear hug is no match for an angry man with a salami. For I took said salami and proceeded to beat him silly with it. Fortunately I was smart enough not to hit the two cops who came ostensibly to break up the fight. It Wasn’t Worth Getting Arrested
Before I share the story about ‘Jersey Santa’ I should add that some of you will believe these tales to be real even though they are marked fiction. If you find yourself among those people please let me know because I want to send you a bill for reading my words. The kids need new shoes and you might as well make yourself useful.
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There are relatively few good ways to tell most people that you beat up Santa Claus.
Most of them start with he was drunk, aggressive and getting too friendly with my wife/kids but those are hard to come by.
My story isn’t quite like that. The jolly old man wasn’t making eyes at my woman or doing bad things to my kids so I don’t have any reasons other than I just don’t like him.
Something about that guy just chaps my hide. Maybe it is because as the Jewish kid I know he automatically puts me on the naughty list.
Once upon a midnight dreary when I found myself in a state between weak and weary I started thinking about how unfair it was not to be gifted with whatever sort of gifts are given to the other team.
Since I am a peace loving fellow I figured the best way to go about this was to figure out who Mr. Claus reports to. Once I had that information it would be easy to encourage him to share some loot with me.
When I began my research I discovered the 1-800-Ask a Gentile hotline. I dialed the fine folks over there and much to my chagrin learned it didn’t work. Every time I called I got one of those error messages about the line not being in service.Since my one track mind isn’t easily dissuaded I called the Vatican and asked to be connected with the pope.
Apparently he isn’t available to take calls nor is he willing to return them, especially when they are of a frivolous or silly nature. I don’t know about you, but a guy who wears a funny pointed hat shouldn’t chew on the butts of other people who enjoy silly.
Anyhoo, time passes and I am stumped. Mrs. Hackleshmackle, the librarian from my high school called me an idiot and said she don’t have to put up with my nonsense no more.
There ain’t no one at the Library of Congress who will answer my question nor is there anyone at the Smithsonian. But like I said, I am determined so I figure I’ll go to the local mall and ask the guy who is playing Santa Claus if he can help me out.
So I head on over to the Short Hills Mall and find myself talking to an elf who has a real Jersey attitude. I say, Snooky, I got no time to deal with an elf who smells like she doused herself with a combination of kerosene and Chanel Number Smellslikecrap. Just tell the fat guy I need to talk.
I don’t even want to tell you what sort of response I got, but it was pretty vulgar. Fortunately Santa heard us talking and he waddled over and what he said shocked me.
That fat old man used a series of four letter words in a fashion that cannot be described as friendly or jolly.
Well, no one gets a free poke at me so I told Santa that if he didn’t apologize I was going to kick his ass.
Jersey Santa didn’t take too kindly to that so he vaulted over the candy cane fence and came straight for me.
Santa, I ain’t one of your elves. The sarge told me he loved me because I am a hard charger with head full of rocks. Step back or risk having your bag of coal shoved so far up your ass a match and a burp will start a fire.
Needless to say Jersey Santa didn’t take my advice but he did take five fingers in the mouth, a boot to the ass and a hard right to the gut.
Had there been a window he probably would have been defenestrated, but sadly luck was not on my side.
I’d like to say I got through the moment unscathed and unharmed but that wouldn’t be true.
Two of Santa’s elves jumped me from behind. One of them bit my shoulder and the other grabbed a hold of the kind of package that requires more TLC than they gave it.
And Santa, well he surprised me with a hook shot that almost knocked me on my ass. I have to give him credit for that one, it was almost as good as he got.
Twenty-five years later I still don’t get anything on Christmas nor have I ever figured out who Santa’s boss is. But I got some good memories and I didn’t get arrested, so I guess I got that going for me.
