Timmy’s Trip to the North Pole
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 Tinketoes 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