Ah Christmas, the magical time of year when we celebrate morbid obesity, slavery, breaking and entering and Capitalism. It seems that everyone is in a good mood. Even Claire, who so readily shoots down my advances, seemed comfortable around me. God bless eggnog. After the party, I woke up to Christmas Day, feeling all warm and fuzzy. Once again, eggnog prevails.
A breath mint and an illegal drive later, I arrived at my parents’ house. My parents, being festive as ever, decorated the house with bright, shining lights, large, inflatable snowmen that have, miraculously, not been poked by the neighborhood kids and they even took the liberty of painting the house a tacky red and green color scheme. When I walked in to the house I noticed my old man, happy as ever. Some say he’s drunk on life, I say he’s just drunk. I’m not even being a downer here, when my Aunt Vicky died, he was encouraging everyone to look on the bright side, urging everyone to laugh at her death, the smell of whiskey emanating from his throat. He was watching reruns of A Christmas Story, laughing like Santa Clause at a comedy club between gulps of ‘nog. It was starting to feel a lot like Christmas, or a hangover. And I loved it. It reminded me of the good old days. So why, why am I tied to a chair, with an angry, screaming midget claiming to be an elf standing over me? I always thought elves were myths, made up by parents and the Disney Corporation, like the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny and finding true love. But apparently, the elves are real, Santa is real and it’s been sugar coated all these years. Santa’s workshop isn’t in the North Pole; it’s in Shenzhen, China because it’s ‘easier to get materials’. And the elves aren’t supposed to be short, they actually look kind of like Legolas from Lord of the Rings, they’re short because they are children, working at factories, sickened and because their only pay is candy. I thought that everybody should know about this so I set out to China, ready to take down Saint Nick.
Well that was an utter disaster. I stood in front of the factory the elf told me about and started to protest. The police came shortly after called me a hippie and doused me with a hose from a nearby fire hydrant. But, as I was sopping wet, struggling with a pair of chopsticks so I could eat my roast duck or whatever it was, I got an idea. I was going to make an expose type video a la Kony 2012. With film crew en route and paid we infiltrated the factory. A week later, the video was finished and posted online.
Yet another catastrophic failure, the video was doing so well, being shared by every self-righteous person on all types of social media. People cared for like a week, but then they remembered that they didn’t care nearly enough. People just forgot about it, just like both you and I both will forget I wrote this. So that, dear Claire, is why I did not call you back.
© Copyright 2016 Jon Cott. All rights reserved.
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