I roll up a spliff of fine marijuana, and delicately begin the conversation.

"So...St. Nick. How you doin'?"

"Well, I'm doin'. Those reindeer will be the death of me, I'm sure"

"Really. Why do you say that?"

"Well, for one, they're horrible drug abusers. Every last one. Fucking degenerates."

"No kidding."

"Yeah. I keep them in line with an electrified cattle prod. Hey, you gonna' pass that or what?"

"Sure. My bad."

"Thanks."

Bitter, twisted old St. Nick takes a long drag off of the dubee, and descends into a fit of coughing.

"Sheeit, dude. That's some dank green." He said amid spasms of choking.

"Gotta cough to get off," I say languidly, eyeing him with contempt. That old bastard. What have you done for me lately?

"Whew. What was I talking about?" He says, eyes red as his suit.

"I have no idea."

"Well..., maybe it was the gifts."

"Sure."

"There is so much overhead in the process, the labor trouble, the sexual harrassment-"

"Listen, cheif. Smoke this and tell me who got what. Okay?"

Santa takes the joint, pinches it between his thumb and forfinger, holds it up to his face with almost a feral glow in his eyes, squinting at me with muted malice.

"Y'know, you're a fuckin' ball breaker. In the old days, you know what list you'd make. But now-a-days, with the lawyers....," *sigh* "NOBODY makes the naughty list. I don't even know why we have it..."

"Riiiiight. I got you stoned, dude. Make with the gifts."

"Not yet. You know when. Until then, just relax."

"Bring it."

"No."

*sigh* "All right. So who got what this year?"

And Santa deliberately waits. A total power trip, I think at first, but no. He's got that far away look in his eyes. Like he's seeing beyond. Something wildly bad went down, and I have no idea what. But then, he's the one with the supposed mystical powers and phat budget, so what do I care? He's been a crusty curmudgeon all along, and smokes more of my grass than I do.

He takes a healthy drag off the blunt, which has become a roach, and it stings his fingers.

"Ouch. I can see you need roach clips this year."

"Whatever. Its not my fault your pot-radar went off."

"Anyway." His eyes widened, attempting to head off an inevitable discussion of his pot mooching habits. "Well, what do you want to know?"

"Okay. Start slow...George Bush."

"Math Skills. Next?"

"Ummm. Gore?"

"Easy. A personality."

"Tom Green?"

Santa puts his hands between his legs and simulates re-attaching a detached testicle. This causes him to breathe hard, for some reason.

"Okay...Darva Konger?"

"A dildo."

"Huh?"

"Look, go big or go home, y'know? What. Do something like that show, just to be a wet blanket? Make the best of things. Shit, I have a restraining order."

"You do."

"Yeah."

"From...." I gently prod.

"Look there was this incident...I don't want to talk about it."

"Hey, okay. Not a problem."

And then, one of his reindeer, standing off behind him, looks at me coyly.

"Aye." He said. "She was a teas-er. You'll get what you deserve!" he shouted, at no one, seemingly.

"Riiiight. I really don't understand the Darva Konger bias. I'm trying, but its a struggle."

"OKAY. I felt let down by the show. That's all. Fugetaboutit."

"Hmmm. Okay, some quickies: Bob Dole."

"New dick."

"Elian."

"Water wings and a new mom"

"Ally McBeal."

"A sandwich."

"Ricky Martin."

"Heterosexuality."

"Why?"

"It will extend his career."

"Vladimir Putin."

"A diving team and a sub that works."

"Ooooh. That's bad."

"Yeah." Pause. "But he really needs it."

Another pause.

"Okay...Celine Dion."

"A toaster oven for defrosting."

"Hmmmm. How about the surving Ugandan cult members?"

"I'm thinking fire-extinguisher. Maybe some shovels."

I give him a look of mixed disgust and shock.

"I know. The job is getting to me. Fuck it, anyway. Its my show. No one told me that this gig would last for eternity. I didn't have management."

Santa produces a 64 oz. jug of O-E and proceeds to slug it down with abandon, spilling some on his coat.

"Pops. Pops. Wait. Hold on. You're spilling on your nice, red coat."

"Why don't you just fuck off."

"Look, if you're gonna be a cock, we can settle this."

"Okay. Okay. Calm down. I was only kidding."

"Hey, I was only trying to help. I feel a little disrespected over here."

"Alllright. I'm sorry. There, you happy now?"

And slowly, I shake my head. This I did not need. First he smokes my weed uninvited, then he's a prick to me. What the fuck. Fuck this demented fucker.

But when I look back at him, he's gone, trudging his way back to his sleigh, carrying his jug of O-E limply in one hand, carrying it with his index finger looped through the knob on the mouth of the bottle, swatting idly at rudolph with the other.

He pauses in front of his vehicle and looks back.

"Hey. The gifts are all I have left."

Yeah, to register your bitter dissent from your poor career choice. Just like an airline stewardess.

"Hold on." I say. "Two more."

"Shoot." He says, uncapping the jug, letting out a subtle belch.

"Back Street Boys."

"Puberty. Wet dreams. Masturbation. The whole nine yards."

"Michael Jackson?"

"Hmmm. That's more difficult. Y'know, for someone who has so much, that guy really needs a lot. Howzabout, the skin color of his choice, and testosterone implants so he can leave the little boys alone. I don't know. What do you think?"

"Santa, I couldn't even begin to tell you."

"I know. Its tough."

"I hope you cheer up, man."

"Yeah. Right." he says as he shakes his head, gloomily, eyes glazed over, glassy from the pot and who knows what else. Numerous downers, I'm guessing. But who knows. And I can't really blame him. After all, it's eternity he's dealing with.

He stumbles as he steps into his ride, black boots flailing on the end of chubby legs. He gets situated, smoothes the wrinkles out of his coat, whips his reindeer into a frothing frenzy with his electric cattle prod, and disappears into the night with a mad cackle.

As I wander off, an empty jug of O-E lands with a hollow sound in the snow in front of me.