Posts Tagged ‘Christmas’
Timmy’s Trip to the North Pole
by Paul Merrill
It was Christmas Eve, and like most boys and girls around the world, little Timmy Tinkeltoes was dreaming of Santa. There was nothing in the world Timmy loved more than Christmas. Except, perhaps, for eating, but since he was too poor to buy food, and was forced to eat wallpaper to survive, he was pretty much stuck with Christmas.
Little Timmy filled his tiny mind with thoughts of the North Pole and Christmas toys and gingerbread men and roast turkey and gravy and OMIGOD HE WAS SO FUCKING HUNGRY!!!!!
Suddenly, he awoke to a strange sound outside. Did his creepy Uncle Frank return to show him his tattoos again? Timmy peeped out into the night and saw a jolly old man with a white beard all dressed in red, vomiting outside his bedroom window.
“Santa Claus?” Timmy asked.
“BLRRRAAAARRFFFF!” the old man replied.
Fueled by holiday excitement and starvation, Timmy grabbed his tattered robe, brushed off the rats, and ran outside.
“Santa! Santa! I want to know how toys are made! Please show me your workshop!” cried Timmy.
“You want some shit?” Santa replied. “Come with me.”
The pair walked over across the street to Santa’s van. “That’s a funny sled!” laughed Timmy.
“Yeah,” Santa mumbled. “Funny.”
Timmy climbed aboard while Santa fumbled about with his “sack”. Finally, Santa pulled out something that looked like candy. “Oh! I think I read about this in a book!” Timmy exclaimed. “Is that the Magic Marshmallow that will take me to the North Pole?”
“It’ll make you see all sorts of weird shit.” Santa laughed. Timmy greedily popped the “marshmallow” into his mouth.
“Oh shit!” Santa screamed. “Don’t take the whole thing–that’ll kill you, bro!”
But it was too late. Timmy tumbled through space and time. Candy canes and sugarplums floated by, taunting him as they passed.
“Hey starving boy!” they teased. “Bet you wish you could take a bite out of us, huh? Well you can’t, because you’re poor and stupid!”
Timmy thought this was the silliest thing he had ever seen! Well, except for the time he walked in on mommy playing horsey with the landlord. That was hilarious!
Suddenly, Timmy found himself lying in a snow bank. He wiped his eyes and looked around.
“I did it!” Timmy shouted, “I’m at the North Pole!”
A big sign read “WELCOME TO SANTA’S WORKSHOP! ASS, GRASS or CASH–NOBODY RIDES FOR FREE”.
“Silly Santa!” chucked Timmy as he ran toward the workshop.
When he went inside, he couldn’t believe his eyes. There were presents as far as the eye could see. And the place was filled with tiny little people building wonderful new toys!
“Those must be Santa’s Elves!” Timmy exclaimed.
“Elves?” a voice called. “Ho-ho-ho! Those aren’t elves, Timmy. Those are the little boys and girls from my naughty list. They have been magically transformed into tireless work zombies for my toy factory, where they will live a cruel, hellish existence while I get rich off their labor–it’s really a win-win situation for me. But don’t worry, Timmy: you’ll get to help them!”
Without warning, a green glow started to radiate from Timmy’s body. He looked down at his fingers and they began to shrink. He felt his ears start to grow and become pointed. To his horror, Timmy realized he was becoming an elf!
“I don’t want to be at Santa’s workshop anymore!” Timmy cried. “I don’t care how toys are made! I just want to be home safe in my nice rat-infested bed with three square meals of dirt everyday!”
“Stop crying!” Santa yelled. “Your tears are washing away my evil magic! Also, you look really stupid when you cry. Seriously, just look at yourself some time. It’s ridiculous.”
But the tears were already working. Timmy could feel a warm sensation rushing through his body and soon found himself flying through the air.
Timmy awoke and looked around. He was home at last!
Timmy leapt to his feet and ran to his mirror. There were no pointed ears or funny hats–he wasn’t an elf after-all!
There was something different about him, though. When he looked again, he realized he was now, in fact, a 38-year-old writer named Paul Merrill, author of such timeless classics as the Jonas Brothers video game and “Pups: the official guide to Nintendogs”.
“Oh my god,” the author sighed. “I am so fucking hungry.”
Copyright ©2010 – Paul Merrill – www.paulmerrill.com
As I was dragging the corpse out of my house, its fat, decomposing midsection got stuck in the doorway.
Our Christmas tree was dead when I bought it. It was half brown sitting on that tree lot, but my son picked it out, and I respected his choice. That was a month ago. Now our proud holiday centerpiece was a large coniferous mummy, and it was time to go. I was trying to sneak it out while my kids were watching How The Grinch Stole Christmas for the 4000th time. They’re children, and they actually enjoy Christmas, so the sight of me dumping the beloved tannenbaum would be too much for their sweet, tiny minds to bear. So instead, I was going to lie and say atheists stole it.
This tree was huge, at least by our humble Ballard standards. When I brought it into the house in December, it was neatly bundled in plastic. Now, about a month past its expiration date, the damn thing wouldn’t fit through the door. Worse, the remaining pine needles were petrified into steel tipped darts, piercing their way through my Dickies Work Jacket into my flesh. With one last, desperate tug I managed to get the tree out onto my porch, sending a shower of deadly, pine-scented projectiles in all directions.
I heaved the dead tree over the railing into the bushes below. Overgrown foliage is a killer’s best friend. Thinking the hard part was over, I headed back inside and, to my horror, saw a deep carpet of brownish-green pine needles all over the front room.
“Oh my god,” I thought “They’ll know. THEY’LL KNOW!”
I quickly regained my wits, grabbed a broom and tried my best to dispose of the gore. I felt like a post-shower scene Norman Bates. Pine needles were everywhere. The more I swept, the more I found. Every time I thought I was done, I’d spin around and see a new batch lodged somewhere. The couch. The curtains. The windowsill.
I finally managed to clean up the crime scene, and just in time, as I heard the pitter-patter of my children rushing from the bedroom. The nightmare was over and soon I would be snuggling with my family on the couch drinking hot chocolate. I went to take off my shoes (NO SHOES IN THE HOUSE!) when a wave of terror came over me—my shoes were completely covered in pine needles. I glanced in a nearby mirror and saw that I was covered from head to toes in Those Goddamned Needles. I looked like a fat green porcupine.
Overcome with panic, I stripped naked as fast as I could, tossed the incriminating clothes into the closet and slammed it shut.
My wife and two young sons stood there, slack-jawed, staring at the hairy, sweaty naked man in their living room.
“Where’s the Christmas Tree?” my youngest son asked.
“The atheists stole it,” I explained. “And my clothes. They were nudist atheists, and they hate Christmas. And clothes. Who wants hot chocolate?”
©2010 Paul Merrill / www.paulmerrill.com