If you can't find this blasphemous "Lonely" Santa trailer on my blog page (it should be right at the top), my cousin Dave says to be sure you modify your privacy settings to allow cookies.
mmmmmmmm.....coooooooookies.
The solution to so many of life's little problems.
santa...OUT
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Do NOT watch "LONELY SANTA" Movie Trailer... It's Lies!! all LIES!!
I just want to make it very clear that I do not endorse the upcoming documentary about my life, made by that curly haired boy with the dirty hat and the little lizard girl with the bulging eyes. Those two leeches followed me around for a week and told me that they were scanning me for cancerous diseases. They took full advantage of me, knowing full well I am unfamiliar with your silly non-magical technologies. How was I to know that was a camera they were toting around??
First of all, the trailer, which was posted to the YooToob this morning. Where do I even begin??? The title. LONELY Santa??? Who says I'm lonely?? I've got like a hundred and fifty friends on Facebook. And like 500 followers on the Tweeter. Does that sound like a lonely guy?? I don't think so. And that car-toon at the start is totally unrepresentative of my life. I don't wear this red get-up when I'm delivering presents. Do you think I'd be able to sneak around, all lit up like a traffic light? Hells naw. This red suit is for ceremonial functions only. Photo ops and whatnot. I'm like a Mountie. When I'm delivering gifts, I wear black lycra and kevlar with night-vision goggles. I also carry a semi-automatic dart gun and a taser so as to disable any angry dogs who may get in my way. I'm not about propagating stereotypes and I'm putting an end to that one right now.
What next?? Oh yes... the weeping. Of course that has been taken completely out of context and used to make me look like a sad and lonely fool. When really, I was crying tears of elation because Dave and I happened to be watching the 1994 re-make of Miracle on 34th Street (which is far superior to the original, in my personal opinion), and Santa was just cleared of all those nasty insanity charges.
I would like to point out to those little urchins who made this film without my knowledge that I do not remember signing any kind of release form and I will be involving my elfish lawyers just as soon as the divorce proceedings with Mrs. Claus have all been sorted out. I'm sueing your asses for SLANDER.
So I implore all of you... BOYCOTT LONELY SANTA!!! It's all POPPYCOCK and FLIM FLAM!! Those children usurped my Christmas spirit and good will and used me to make an exploitative piece of Christmas garbage that will damange my squeaky clean reputation and taint Christmas forever for all the girls and boys who believe in me. SO DON'T WATCH IT!!!
santa...PISSED.
First of all, the trailer, which was posted to the YooToob this morning. Where do I even begin??? The title. LONELY Santa??? Who says I'm lonely?? I've got like a hundred and fifty friends on Facebook. And like 500 followers on the Tweeter. Does that sound like a lonely guy?? I don't think so. And that car-toon at the start is totally unrepresentative of my life. I don't wear this red get-up when I'm delivering presents. Do you think I'd be able to sneak around, all lit up like a traffic light? Hells naw. This red suit is for ceremonial functions only. Photo ops and whatnot. I'm like a Mountie. When I'm delivering gifts, I wear black lycra and kevlar with night-vision goggles. I also carry a semi-automatic dart gun and a taser so as to disable any angry dogs who may get in my way. I'm not about propagating stereotypes and I'm putting an end to that one right now.
What next?? Oh yes... the weeping. Of course that has been taken completely out of context and used to make me look like a sad and lonely fool. When really, I was crying tears of elation because Dave and I happened to be watching the 1994 re-make of Miracle on 34th Street (which is far superior to the original, in my personal opinion), and Santa was just cleared of all those nasty insanity charges.
I would like to point out to those little urchins who made this film without my knowledge that I do not remember signing any kind of release form and I will be involving my elfish lawyers just as soon as the divorce proceedings with Mrs. Claus have all been sorted out. I'm sueing your asses for SLANDER.
So I implore all of you... BOYCOTT LONELY SANTA!!! It's all POPPYCOCK and FLIM FLAM!! Those children usurped my Christmas spirit and good will and used me to make an exploitative piece of Christmas garbage that will damange my squeaky clean reputation and taint Christmas forever for all the girls and boys who believe in me. SO DON'T WATCH IT!!!
santa...PISSED.
Monday, November 30, 2009
monday... so very lonely
Of all the days in the week... I can't be bothered to count how many there are... but surely Monday is the loneliest of all. Back at the North Pole, Mondays were our day off. We would work hard all week preparing toys for all the good girls and boys, and then on Mondays we would rest. It was good for morale that while the rest of the world was just starting work, we were taking it easy. All the elves and reindeer would go galavanting about the frigid landscape and play all sorts of fun games and get in countless adventures.
Why, one Monday, me and Helen (that's Mrs. Claus' real name), took Blitzen to the great castle of the Ice King for a day trip. The castle of the Ice King is a wonderful, magical place very similar to your Las Vegas, full of hot cider and pumpkin pies and scantily clad elvish waitresses serving white Russians and hearty men smoking fine cigars and gambling. OH the gambling!! Helen and I spent the whole day betting on the Yeti-fights. This is a game that elves have a particular affinity for, in which great beasts of the north - very similar to your Sasquatches, only much larger and white as snow - are pitted against one another in epic battles to the death. The winning Yeti devours the loser and lives to fight another day. Helen was never much of a fan of the sport... something about animal rights, which I never understood because the Yeti's annihilate and devour each other in nature, it's just the order of things - but anyway she always tolerated it so long as we were winning - hypocritical bitch. Well Helen and I had marvelous luck that day, winning all of our bets and making a great deal of money off of poor Jack Frost, who has a terrible gambling addiction and couldn't pick a winning Yeti if it bit his face off.
So to celebrate our victories, we decided to stay the night in one of the Ice King's luxury suites. We ordered room service and then spent the night making love like we were on our honeymoon. We even did some roleplaying in which I pretended to be a plumber and Mrs. Claus was my unsuspecting patron. I then proceeded to clean her pipes thoroughly - and by "clean her pipes" I mean I gave it to her gangsta style while she massaged my sphincter with her pinky. Oh, say what you will about Helen but she was a freeee-eeeeak.
It only makes the pain worse recalling these fond memories. And now that I have no job, Mondays have all but lost their meaning. Everyday is a day off and while everyone else is going to work to fulfill their social duties, I just lay around and eat cookies and watch paternity tests on Maury while I massage my own sphincter with my pinky and nibble on my own nipples (which Helen never used to do but it does feel sublime). And sometimes, if I close my eyes real tight and use all my powers of imagination, I can sometimes hear her whispering in my ear, "That's right, Santa. You like it when I tickle your ass, don't you?" And then I open my eyes expecting to see her there... but it's only Dave trying make me feel better. And I do appreciate his efforts but sometimes it's more than I can bare. So my Mondays are now usually spent sobbing in a mess of chocolate and cookie crumbs, my pinky gently caressing the soft skin around my anus.
until next monday,
Santa
Why, one Monday, me and Helen (that's Mrs. Claus' real name), took Blitzen to the great castle of the Ice King for a day trip. The castle of the Ice King is a wonderful, magical place very similar to your Las Vegas, full of hot cider and pumpkin pies and scantily clad elvish waitresses serving white Russians and hearty men smoking fine cigars and gambling. OH the gambling!! Helen and I spent the whole day betting on the Yeti-fights. This is a game that elves have a particular affinity for, in which great beasts of the north - very similar to your Sasquatches, only much larger and white as snow - are pitted against one another in epic battles to the death. The winning Yeti devours the loser and lives to fight another day. Helen was never much of a fan of the sport... something about animal rights, which I never understood because the Yeti's annihilate and devour each other in nature, it's just the order of things - but anyway she always tolerated it so long as we were winning - hypocritical bitch. Well Helen and I had marvelous luck that day, winning all of our bets and making a great deal of money off of poor Jack Frost, who has a terrible gambling addiction and couldn't pick a winning Yeti if it bit his face off.
So to celebrate our victories, we decided to stay the night in one of the Ice King's luxury suites. We ordered room service and then spent the night making love like we were on our honeymoon. We even did some roleplaying in which I pretended to be a plumber and Mrs. Claus was my unsuspecting patron. I then proceeded to clean her pipes thoroughly - and by "clean her pipes" I mean I gave it to her gangsta style while she massaged my sphincter with her pinky. Oh, say what you will about Helen but she was a freeee-eeeeak.
It only makes the pain worse recalling these fond memories. And now that I have no job, Mondays have all but lost their meaning. Everyday is a day off and while everyone else is going to work to fulfill their social duties, I just lay around and eat cookies and watch paternity tests on Maury while I massage my own sphincter with my pinky and nibble on my own nipples (which Helen never used to do but it does feel sublime). And sometimes, if I close my eyes real tight and use all my powers of imagination, I can sometimes hear her whispering in my ear, "That's right, Santa. You like it when I tickle your ass, don't you?" And then I open my eyes expecting to see her there... but it's only Dave trying make me feel better. And I do appreciate his efforts but sometimes it's more than I can bare. So my Mondays are now usually spent sobbing in a mess of chocolate and cookie crumbs, my pinky gently caressing the soft skin around my anus.
until next monday,
Santa
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