December 10, 2013 by bmcconnelluwo
How could Santa do this to us?
For years we elves have labored and toiled, day in, day out building toys for boys and girls the world over.
The Great War – we were there, hammers in hand when all around there was carnage. The Great Depression – we were there again with faces covered in soot and bellies drooping with hunger.
The Great Cold War, the Great Hippie movement, Gretzky, the Great One and the birth of the Great Bieber.
We were there for all of them—hundreds of us in a row, working away, whistling, and never missing a beat.
Some of us did it because hey, what else is there to do. Others did it because that she-elf Sparkles totally digs elves who can make a mean Pinocchio doll.
But most elves—those of us who truly understood that Christmas spirit and the joy on a small child’s face when they unwrap a Don’t-Touch-Me-There Elmo could be monetized far more lucratively than junk jobs like landscaping—did it because the cash flow was phenomenal.
And we thought that Santa would always have our backs. For years we’ve toiled, worked and gotten paid. Because, alas, you gots to get paid.
Santa was always there with a wink and a smile to hand us our hard earned loot and we loved him for it.
But then came the day—the day that will go down in elf history forever.
The day when Santa sold out.
The door burst open; there was snow in the air. As my eyes got used to the light I saw the familiar morbidly obese form of my old friend Santa.
“Ho, ho, ho!,” he said with a laugh. “I’m super tired of doing this crap. Lugging and slipping and flying and…. Slipping again. I can’t even bring myself to rhyme anymore. I don’t have the time.”
“You see, small ones, I’ve upgraded my credentials. I’ve changed my pay to be presidential. Unfortunately that means that I can’t afford you, so I’ve shipped all your jobs off to Peru.”
And then he just straight up kicked us all out on our asses.
How could he do this, that jolly St. Nick?
He’s compromised the quality of our toys forever. Instead of Pinocchio dolls, Santa’s underlings are delivering Pistachios… ‘cause you don’t have to worry about trade mark laws for a nut.
And the North Pole has been ruined forever. The reindeer have turned to cannibalism, the elves have developed rampant substance abuse problems and Santa’s workshop has turned into Rob Ford’s weekend hideout.
All the while the fat, bearded trader sits on his throne of greed and lies in the sunny, warm south… Toronto.
So I’m writing you this letter to settle the score. I know as a boy you experienced the horrors of seeing your town’s only major industry outsourced and the lives of your neighbors ruined by corporate greed.
Oh the injustice of it all. An entire auto industry, annihilated and the lives of the workers ruined forever.
Seeing your dear old town of Flint, Michigan slowly rot away from the inside, much like the decrepit state of my beloved North Pole.
It makes Detroit look like San Diego. Like, come on, that’s messed up.
So, please, Mr. Moore, please help my beloved elves. We need your obnoxious ways and accurate, totally not skewed or bias in any way film making, to let the world know what Santa Corp. has done to us.
Do to Santa what you did to GM’s CEO Roger Smith and… I don’t know, not actually interview him or something. I haven’t actually seen the movie.
Actually, on second thought, I just read that you weren’t actually raised in Flint and came from a pretty well off family.
Never mind. I’ll send this letter to Kanye; he seems legit.
Snorky the Elf.