Christmas is right around the corner. I’m so behind. Worse. It’s the 14th. I’ve yet to even think about my annual Christmas Party.
Fortunately, I’m self-employed. There’s just me and there’s no disgruntled employee to snitch to Human Resources or the Environmental Protection Agency that I’m actually calling my Christmas Party a Christmas Party. Bonus. Seeing that I’m the only person at my Christmas Party, should I sneeze, I can say, “God bless me!” and I won’t be hounded by the tight-sphinctered Left.
Some may feel that hosting an office party for yourself is depressing. Well. There’s that. But, it is a tax deduction. Every year, I rent out the Grand Ballroom at the tony local hotel. Because it’s just me, they charge me full price, but, cordon off a 5-foot-by-5-foot section with a single wooden tile as a dance floor. Wearing my green velvet suit, I dance, alone, to “Little Drummer Boy.”
Pardon my Scrooge-ness, but “Drummer Boy” sucks to dance to.
The hotel provides a stool, a bottled water, a mutant pine cone peduncle and the “festive 1-ounce cheese tray.” All for just $23,500. From time to time, I’ll cross over to where mistletoe is hanging overhead from a coat hanger and pat myself on the shoulder. I don’t know myself well enough to kiss.
Funny. Every year, the Democrats hold their Winter Solstice Observation next door. I can tell it’s Democrats from the sound their cloven hooves make on the dance floor. Plus, there’s the goat bleating and calls for human sacrifice.
Here’s a great mystery. I’m the only one at my Self-Employed Christmas Office Party. So. When the Secret Santa present-exchange arrives every year, how come I get the exact, same present?
Worse? It’s an obvious re-gift.
Adverbs make me very, very, very, very, very, very, very sad.
On the plus side, as owner and founder of my own company, Scared o’ Bears Ranch, I can give the same speech. This Christmas, I’ve shortened it:
“It’s been an interesting year…”
I wave sheepishly to no one in particular, then make my way over to the stool, sit on the edge so as to not knock anything off, chew ice and stare for a few hours.
This year, I’m optimistic. I’m thinking — this year — Santa Claus is going to show. We’ll laugh joyously at seeing one another. An elf will magically bring steaming mugs of hot chocolate. Santa and I will salute Christmas, children and the world’s BEST community: the Santa Clarita Valley.
Suddenly, in will burst two intellectual ruffians. Dressed in black ANTIFA pajamas with stained white underwear on the outside, they scream accusations at Santa, blaming him for everything from global warming to diabetes. Holding baseball bats incorrectly, they threaten St. Nick, but are immediately taken aback.
“Ho ho ho! I know you!” says Santa. He pulls off their black hoods. “Why, it’s Signal Letters to the Editor pest T. Asp Porridgeface and his gadfly-ette, Poorlisp Struddleburger!”
Unmasked, they fall to their knees and beg: “Socialism!” and “Free stuff!” Thinking Santa’s distracted, they start gnawing on his ankles and reveal their plot to kidnap St. Nick and sell him to Hillary Clinton for carbon credits.
“The world doesn’t need white male fascism!” screams Poorlisp.
“Your sled driving causes climate change!” yells Tiny T. Asp Porridgeface. “And cancer!”
“Death to imperialist Santa!” they both chant.
Santa, good soul that he is, comments how nice they look after losing a combined 800 pounds.
“Quick question: How’d you both get your heads on the cattle scale at the same time?” asks Santa. “Ho ho ho ho ho!!”
“Before killing you, we demand presents!” cackles Poorlisp.
I see Santa reach into a voluminous pocket and pull out a ray gun.
“Poorlisp. Porridgeface. I got you two theme gifts. One’s a dunce cap and the other’s a drool cup. Here. I’ll just toss them on the floor so you two may fight to the death over them. On second thought…”
Santa says two things:
“This year, the stakes have gone up for being naughty.”
“Donald Trump says hello…”
The two SCV vexations hold up clawed hands, writhe and screech like serpents. Santa blasts them with his Christmas ray gun, evaporating them into a conjoined pool of primordial sludge.
Out of nowhere, the walls of my portioned office party come crashing down. As far as the eye can see, a cast of beloved and familiar friends associated with Christmas appear. There’s Tiny Tim. And Bugs Bunny. And the Little Drummer Boy. There’s Mickey Mouse, Superman, Jack Frost, Frosty the Snowman, Charlie Brown, Snoopy and the Nutcrackers, from Via Princessa. There’s Santa’s reindeer, Goofy, Donald Duck, the Three Wise Men, Yosemite Sam and the entire original cast of “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
We all join hands, sing and dance around the icky steaming puddle, singing carols.
Suddenly, everyone stops. A bubble appears from the goop. Above it, rises a thought balloon with but a single word:
Sigh. What a joyous Self-Employed Office Christmas Party this will be!
John Boston is a local satirist. With 119 major awards. He reminds you the perfect Christmas gift is a subscription to The Mighty Signal.