Let’s go all the way Gingerbread & the booties bells: The real meaning of X-mas – Anthony Statham

Mrs. Claus loves Wednesdays. Bridge with the girls, and this week’s game was at sweet Georgie’s so she was jubilant at the prospect of getting a ‘buzz on’ as some of the girls called it. Georgie suffered from crippling arthritis, and still her gnarled hands could hunker down and make the most delicious marijuana-infused-gingerbread in all the white boroughs. And so then it was this thought, the scrumptious gingerbread, which absorbed her mind on the short walk from the compound she shared with her hubby St. Nick, to Georgie’s. Snow collected in big puffy mounds all about the valley. Candy canes bent at odd angles and the air was adrift with the sweet smell of all the goodies the elven crowd prepared. If ever there was a place where one never tired of the smells of sugar, dripping chocolate and shaved coconut, the North Pole was certainly that place.

Still, all in all she made it to Georgie’s house on the outskirts of the village in no time, really. Mrs. Claus, after all, had a three-foot height advantage over the next tallest woman around and so her gait was much longer, even with the swarthy hips and extra cushion all the sweets at the North Pole allotted. Enjoy her place beside her husband Santa Claus, she did. The elves cherished and respected her. Bright-eyed smiles, giant toothy grins and waves greeted her everywhere. Their tinny little voices always found her and gave her a secret pleasure in knowing she had made the right choice when she settled down with St. Nick, and aside from her husband and the elves admiration she truly with all her heart loved candy and sweets and pies and cakes and all the cookies the elves made so masterfully. It was over a buffet of the finest sweets the world has ever known that she and Santa fell in love. Now on Georgie’s stoop Mrs. Claus ever so gently plucked a sour gumdrop from her pocket and placed it on her tongue and then knocked on Georgie’s little front door and bent over so as to be ready to get inside and out of the snow.

“Hello, Mrs. Claus. Come in, come in.”

Earlier Georgie set out the assorted old and discarded Yellow and White Pages for the elven players to set their rumps upon. Years earlier as a joke, Krampus ordered an obscene amount of the heavy books to be sent to the North Pole, specifically the factories where all the awesome and kick-ass toys were manufactured, so as to aggravate his oldest friend; an extra ‘hee-hee’ for the conniving benefaction of Krampus was that the editions were almost exclusively in Spanish and Chinese– unreadable and yet another reminder to his chum of old that he, St. Nick, ran a sweat shop that would make even the most ruthless right wing conservative nut-jobs in the western world shudder in unholy despair. And then so anyway Georgie handed around the thick floppy books for the Elven ladies to set under their butts so that they could reach the top of the table (It should be noted that Georgie only used the oversized humanoid table when hosting a game in which she was certain Mrs. Claus would be in attendance, and after using every ounce of brute force and reserve strength in her tiny and arthritically crippled physique to get the table into her little living quarters – with no help, for elves are a proud species –she then sent a group email to all the lady elves informing them in a less-than-threatening-way that not one peep should be mentioned to the Mrs. about the offbeat need to sit on crooked stacks of discarded phone books because, she should (Mrs. Claus), hopefully, feel it to be a normal thing and that her enormity was in no way out of the ordinary or a hindrance to them at all).

So finally the ladies were seated and playing Bridge. The little dumb-happy eyes flashed around the table as each elf woman took her turn hopping down from the dangerous and haphazard stack of books and set out yummy treats. The little lady elves eyes widened and alighted with tremendous glee as they absorbed the display that was Mrs. Claus’s sugar consumption. Her hunger was a spectacle to behold and for quite some time the game was forgotten entirely as the little elves sat in awe of the gravitas that is a human being (high on medical grade ganja) eating. Besides the gingerbread, there was an assortment of other ‘special’ treats. Elves are mostly known for their roles in Middle Worldly affairs (assisting Hobbit quests and what-have-you, those being the tall elves) and of course, making toys for all the good boys and girls of the world (the tiny ass elves). A couple important and little known facts: elves are unbelievable procurers of narcotics and things psychotropic in nature, they’re kickass chemists and they grow killer bud.

The ladies went to town on all kinds of delicious treats for the tummy and the mind. They talked about a variety of topics, from whether there was rightfully a world standard of ‘nice’ that worked over a strata of cultural differences – or if Santa knew something they didn’t and could modulate from culture to culture around the globe, who is in fact good and naughty based on different parameters known only to him, or if maybe there was a book somewhere that laid out the rules or something, and was it possible do you think that Santa was friends with people like Noam Chomsky or Bertrand Russell and did they ever talk about the elves and what were smart people like that’s thoughts on elf rights? – and so on and so on, etc.

One of the littlest elves, a newcomer to the game named Peep, asked Mrs. Claus if Santa Claus liked to eat as much as she clearly did. The Bridge ladies all gasped, some of their mouths agape, their jaws coming close to clacking on the tabletop. Peep didn’t know any better seeing as she hadn’t spent much time in the presence of the only two humans in all the North Pole.

Mrs. Claus stopped dead in her tracks, a dainty nugget of caramel glazed psychotropic something or other an inch from her puckered mouth – the high caliber chronic suddenly sent her head into spinning fits of confusion and paranoia (she had mowed through her fair share of Georgie’s special gingerbread). She glanced around the table and took in all the little bodies – most made of nothing more than bone and skin and sinewy muscle from all the backbreaking work in the factories. She felt suddenly affright at being such an enormous ‘thing’ in these little people’s lives, and wiped an assortment of delectable fragments from her plush lips and then skittered back in her chair and jostled the sugary crumbs from her velvet blouse. Georgie sent stinging nettles at Peep from her glazed eyes, which Peep didn’t comprehend at all, for she herself was baked out of her gourd off the sticky-icky-fueled-gingerbread as well as some seriously intense ketamine spiked M & M’s, and in all honesty didn’t remember what she had asked Mrs. Claus initially at all in the first place anyway.

The fire crackled and popped under the mantle.

“I think I’d better go.” A rather self conscious Mrs. Claus stood up from her chair and nuzzled toward the door, her back bent the entire way, for somehow even though ‘tore up from the floor up’ on the magical weed snacks and whatever else she’d vacuumed up, she had the resolve to not damage and destroy sweet little Georgie’s most pleasant and accommodating home.

“Thank you, Georgie. Goodbye everyone, and Merry Christmas (as was the custom in the NP, even if it was April 15th).”

And with that Mrs. Claus was out the little door and back into the snowy blizzard and on her way home, and though she would never admit it to a single soul– suffered from an almost indescribable hunger as yet another wave from the powerful medical-grade-super-chronic-laced-gingerbread ran its course through her syrupy sugar addled veins. If she was still hungry once home she could call for Randy or Margot (the house elves) to bring her something. Randy was a devoted helper and Master Chef and to his acclaim the only Michelin starred personal servant in the world, and Margot (besides being Mrs. Claus favorite) was no slouch in the kitchen either, seeing as just the thought of her vegetarian lasagna made Mrs. Claus drool on command like a Pavlovian canine. As she passed the lighted factory she heard the tingling singing voices of all the jolly elves at work inside. A jolt of guilt rang through her heart. They were in there, the true heroes of Christmas, working tirelessly; and here she was, eyes burning red embers in the dark – high as a fresh helium pumped balloon taking flight. Attacked by a merciless fit of cottonmouth and unable to help herself, she checked in all directions to make sure no one was watching, and then aggressively uprooted a candy cane from the snow and chomped away, gnashing the sweet white and red stripes into a nothingness pulp of languid dream flavor in her mouth.

Santa Claus would be surprised to see her home so early. On most Bridge nights, she never arrived home before midnight, sometimes drunk off sweet wine or licorice vodka; occasionally tipsy from experimental lab manufactured swallowables snuck out of the elf labs that were off-the-books and ‘didn’t exist’ to anyone that wasn’t ‘in the know,’ – and here it was, barely half-past eight and she was soon to saunter in, belly rumbling and eyes as red and glazed as one of Randy’s award winning Strawberry Rhubarb tarts.

Mrs. Claus stopped at the front entrance to their glorious gated home and took it all in. To anyone with a whisper of Holiday cheer – the compound at The North Pole, home of the mighty Santa Claus – was a sight to behold. Mrs. Claus stood dumbfounded by its majesty as the amped-up-mega-dank-gingerbread continued its merciless assault on her psyche. She went from feelings of dread to piercing remorse and back again. She couldn’t keep track of anything, and yet rumble away her stomach certainly did. She came in through the side entrance. The cinnamon and cranberry scented candles were alight. She peeked into the kitchen, just in case Randy was working on some new recipe. It was dark and silent, everything neatly placed in its place, not a sound to be heard.

“Hello?” She called. The house spoke not a mouse fart. “Randy? Margot? Where is everyone?”

The hallway floor leading to the master bedroom was made of a gelatin material designed by one of the many Nobel Prize winning elf scientists that the North Pole employed – a material so exclusive in its euphoric pleasure feel that it was deemed illegal for all human contact (Mrs. Claus being the singular exception, as the scientists also designed special for her – footie gloves that were unperceivable to any and all eyes and caressed onto her dainty feet and could even be worn in the shower and required not a single washing in their lifetime – so that she could walk casually along the hallway without exploding into sing-song orgasmic bliss). For unexplained reasons the material had no effect on Santa.

One might ask, “What’s the point of orgasmic pleasure inducing floors if the man and woman of the house were never to experience it in its full?” A Harper’s Bazaar reporter raised the question on December 16th, 1999 in an exclusive interview. Now shamed and possibly homeless reporter Miguel Shabodoki asked the question after having been briefed by The Claus’s press people and was specifically prohibited from one and only one question in an all access interview granted in their marital compound deep in the white swirling bliss of the NP, and of course, overreaching young Shabodoki asked it anyway, to which a smug and all too sure footed Santa, immune as he was to the orgasm fetching material pushed the unsuspecting Mr. Shabodoki onto the magical flooring and watched for several minutes as he writhed in what could only be described by all witnesses as “An unruly display of sexual aggression, with clear and present goo leaking from his downtown area and a frothing grin on his face that would take months or years of therapy to recover from having seen.”

Like sometimes with pot-duped humanoids, Mrs. Claus wandered without knowing from psycho hunger and self centered paranoia into a peaceful avenue of intimate appreciation for all things. The punching-power-packed-marijuana-infused-gingerbread gave up its by the shirt collar grasp on her mind and settled her down on her little specially protected feet giving her a fragrant calm over mind and body. A little skip joined in her step and she felt a sudden quiver in her nether regions and was now hightailing it toward the closed doors at the end of the hall where in her minds eye, old St. Nick was lying asleep under the high count Egyptian thread sheets in their shared marital bed, completely unaware and yet ready for a roll in the hay, so to speak.

“Yoohoo! Nicky, I hope you’re still awake.”

Now, as the chronic warmed her insides from every direction thus numbing her sense of self and cocooning in a warm blanket her erogenous desire for sensual pleasures of the private kind, Mrs. Claus was completely unaware of a significant tumult from inside the closed bedroom door.

She entered into the warm and springy bedroom atmosphere.

“Hello, deary! My, you’re home early!” boomed a red-faced St. Nick, from under his prized sheets. He squirmed in a way that would have seemed to most onlookers as an exemplified expression of unnamed guilt.

“Hi, Nicky,” Mrs. Claus was now in a genuine euphoric state that is attainable only through the harsh and cruel journey known to most as ‘that little while the pot destroys you psychically before relenting and then you realize that odd sense of euphoric pleasure which is why most people use marijuana in the first place’. She floated into the room and out of her sparkling white parka. She dropped it on the floor without a care in the world, where it tinkled gently upon a loosed bell, a bell that upon closer inspection would have clearly been noted as belonging on the toe-end of all custom and required elf booties. She pulled her candy red blouse over her head and drizzled it onto the peppermint carpet.

“Why, what has gotten into you, my dear?”

“Georgie made her special gingerbread.”

Santa shot his eyes around the room, a nervous tick of anxiety on the verge of release. “I see. Perhaps you should head to the kitchen and get yourself a snack before bed, what do you say?”

“I’m hungry, just not for anything in the kitchen.” She spun on her heels and flopped down on her back beside her husband. Santa’s eyes darted around the room again, a shocking revelation coming over him that Mrs. Claus had in fact not heard the seriously dire and tremendously primo combination cry of terror and Viagra that whisper-yelled from somewhere under the bed as her body made contact, a sound like “Guuuuuuueeeeeeeeaaaahhhhh.”

Mrs. Claus turned to her husband. “Nicky, you’re sweating. What have you been up to?”

Santa sputtered a nonsensical response, but it was no matter, for Mrs. Claus’s gaze now came to rest on what was clearly a magnificent erection fighting to emerge from under the expensive and gaudy sheets. She whipped back the covers and thus came face to face with the genuine article. She twiddled a finger upon the hilt and noticed a single bead of pearl essence upon the milky and sugary sweet mushroom tip.

“Why, Nicky-“

Santa moved his hips, and another release from unseen territory proclaimed, “Guuuuuuuuueeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhh.”

And but then there was a jingle – a jingle then followed another jingle – and soon the room was a regular chamber of cacophonous bells.

Santa spread his legs and to Mrs. Claus’s astonishment a small red-cheeked face wriggled up from under his titanic balls, “Guuuuueeeeeeaaahhhhh.”

“My God! Randy!”

“Mrs… Guuuuueeeeaaahhhh… You must forgive-“Randy’s bright eyes held the castrated fear of certain death, and his pink cheeks were swathed in sweat and stiff, kinked bristly hairs that certainly weren’t his.

Mrs. Claus, rightly so, came free from the euphoria phase of the marijuana experience and righted her mind upon a reasonably decent view of reality. She cranked her neck toward the center of the room and saw naked little elves hurrying in every direction, clambering from hiding, near the ceiling, tiny legs upside down in potted plants, working to fasten little belts and tunics and pantaloons back into respectable positions. Mrs. Claus had never seen so many little rosy and white bottoms in all her life, and couldn’t help but feel a tiny hiccup of erotic fascination.

Percy, Rudolph’s personal assistant, tumbled out of Mrs. Claus’s unmentionables drawer in the bureau. His face was flush; his neck choked with the dying fragments of a pair of edible underwear Mrs. Claus had yet to find the right occasion for. Percy’s lips were red and glistening with undies-juice.

Mrs. Claus’s mind reeled.

Randy hadn’t moved from beside the set of testicles he’d been lodged under, basically using Santa’s towering erection as a back post reminiscent of Isaac Newton sitting under the apple tree. He seemed to be hyperventilating and toppled sideways and grabbed Santa’s knees with his little hands to keep himself from fainting as yet another little elf, Jedediah, pushed forth from under the king of Christmas’s sack and used a righteous strength to somersault over the thighs of St. Nick and plopped in between Mrs. Claus ample bosom.

“Sorry, Mrs-“ and little Jedediah’s voice was lost to the breasts.

“You have got to be kidding me! Nicholas! Again?”

“My dear, you must understand-“

She sat up and boomed at all the fear-running elves still trampling one another for their articles of clothes and all evidence beyond witness placing them in the room of the damned. “Everyone stop at once!”

The elves froze in place. The female elves covered their tiny little pale breasts, their sharp pink nipples. The previous quiet resettled upon the room, only disrupted by the occasional jingle of the tiny bells on nervous little booties. Ghostly white peckers stood rigid like hitchhikers thumbs between the legs of all the petrified boy elves. Mrs. Claus had not noticed the empty bottle of Viagra on the side table (her side).

“Where’s Margot?” Mrs. Claus asked with surprising calm, her face settled into a poker expression of disinformation. “Margot, it’s okay, dear. Come out.”

The closet doors rattled ever so slightly.

“Rory, Cecil, Percy – help, please.”

The three little naked and shame-abashed elves opened the closet doors. There, naked as the day she was born, aside from her booties, stood young Margot, queen of late night treats and Mrs. Claus surrogate daughter, her most beloved little creature. Her knobby little knees shook.

Santa Claus corrected himself into an upright sitting position, which required a few pillows. He used one pillow to cover his pill-assisted boner. His eyes moved all about the room, anywhere but upon Mrs. Claus herself.

“Margot, my dear,” Mrs. Claus began, but before she could finish any statement of relevance, poor little Margot burst into tears and huddled into herself, a frightened impish child. “Margot, it’s alright. Frankly, and sadly, this is nothing new. My husband has been a man of the North Pole much longer than I, and, well, he’s got impulses. It’s not your fault.” She thought a moment longer, feeling a sense of freedom coming over her, “You’re still my favorite little elf in all the North-“

Margot wracked a massive sob and farted an ear piercing squelch – Her little voice squeaked an attempted apology for the forthcoming – and then a hurtling machine gun fire of beaded gumdrops expelled from her tiny little elven rectum. The gumdrops – red, purple, green, yellow, orange, some with crystalized sugar sprinkles, others translucent in their gumminess, pinged and ricocheted and then one or two trickled onto the floor and then the room was silent, all but the shaking little bells on the toes of Margot’s booties. The tiny elf girl fled the room, a single green gumdrop still swinging by the candy rope plugged into her tiny sphincter. The bells on her little booties jingled and faded away until gone.

All the frozen in place elves, their shivering little naked bodies and pale faces, glistening oversized almond shaped eyes, pointy ears and succinct hipster haircuts, the way even though nude and scarred with fear – they were just… adorable… Maybe it was the pot, but Mrs. Claus suddenly saw with distinct clarity why her husband might be into the kinky weird elf stuff he was into. She shamelessly moved toward St. Nick so that her right knocker grazed his naked thigh. “Nicky, we need to talk.”

Old St. Nick had no idea, his heart still somewhere up in his throat – afraid as he was of a woman’s wrath – but Mrs. Claus had no intentions of upending his little shenanigans but rather she wished to be a part of the rumpus and welcomed a new Holiday tradition, for Christmas is a time for sharing and share they would.

Merry Christmas.


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