After Santa Claus Started Eating Right--a Short Story

Once upon a time the paparazzi found a man who dressed in a red furry suit and went around giving both chits and adults presents on Christmas. Now, very little is known about this man except that he originally worked for the Coca Cola Company but, after disagreements over fringe benefits, he started a solo career as an entertainer at private, adults-only parties.

Then he went to work for the Pepsi Cola Company but then, while shooting a commercial, his hair caught on fire.  Trying desperately to put the fire out he--somehow gleaning something good from a terrible tragedy--invented the moon walk. The "moon walk," originally a mere shuffle born out of the inevitable pain that comes from being on fire, became a popular dance move which to this day many try to imitate--although never as well as Santa Claus originally did it.

No, wait, that was Michael Jackson, wasn't it--my bad!

To make a long story shorter, when a career for the soft drinks and the entertainment industries didn't work out, Santa moved to the North Pole, a gated community for swankily-dressed yuppies and self-made, short-stature millionaires with a flair for the impossible (otherwise known as "elves"). Coincidentally, that's when our weird adventure begins . . .

For years now Santa was worried about how hard it was getting to climb down those ever-shrinking chimneys.  In fact, he was beginning to fear that maybe soon, unless he found a creative solution, he wouldn't be able to sneak into peoples' houses in such a sneaky manner anymore.  If that turned out to be the case, what were the realistic alternatives?

Would he, for example, have to ring the bell and just hope that he'd be invited in?  But, no, what about the element of surprise and the titillating expectation of finding presents under the tree in spite of not seeing Santa Claus on the premises?  Without the secrecy and the keen anticipation, what was the point of playing the Gift-Giving, Gift-Getting Game?

Alas, though, there were other issues to worry about.  For starters, his clothes didn't fit well lately.  True, he could go out and just buy some new duds but he couldn't help feeling that, rather than resolving problems, he was just covering them up.

If truth be told, he didn't feel very energetic lately--in fact, he puffed and huffed when merely climbing some stairs.  And carrying that huge bag of presents for a whole day each year wasn't exactly a pleasant experience, come to think of it.  On the day after Christmas, in fact, he ached all over, almost as if he'd been all over the world in a 24 hour period! 

In spite of all these problems, Santa went ahead with his plans to give most  human beings on earth (except for those on the Naughty List and those who chose to not believe in him) a present for Christmas.  Accordingly, with the help of ornery "elves" who'd volunteer their services (merely for tax right-offs, mind you), Santa matched presents with people's wishes. 

Then, when the magic hour struck on Christmas Eve, he went on his gloriously colourful "rounds."

The first few deliveries went on without a hitch but at this particular house some "complications" made an unwelcome appearance.  For one thing, Santa had a difficult time getting into this particular chimney.  It was one of those newfangled, fancy-schmancy, high-efficiency creations that would have made it difficult even for an anorexic Santa Claus, never mind a man brandishing over 300 pounds!

After much sweating and pushing, though, Santa made it into the house.  The effort was such, however, that he had unwittingly made lots of noise.  So much, in fact, that the whole family was fully awake and watching attentively when he finally landed with a loud thud on the fortunately-unlit wood at the chimney's base.  

"See, Dad, there is a Santa Claus, there is a Santa Claus!" cried a boy of about 7 or 8 years old.  He was wearing a t-shirt with the words "Those Who Eat Well Don't Smell!"

Mom and Dad were, of course, surprised but they made as if these were potentially-ordinary circumstances.

"Welcome to our humble home, Santa," quipped the Mom.  It was clear she didn't know what else to say.

"Honey, why don't you take Sparky into the kitchen so I and Santa can have a few words.  Maybe we can all have a snack together--afterwards?'

Sparky wasn't thrilled at the idea.  He preferred to stick around and join in the conversation but, after Dad assured him that before Santa left he'd get that opportunity, he consented.

"So, Santa, what brings you down into our neck of the woods?" Dad wanted to be helpful but, if truth be told, his curiosity was getting the best of  him.

"Oh, I just dropped in for a short visit--Hank, is it?"  Hank, the Dad, was notably impressed but then he realized Santa had that magic list to rely on.  He wondered if the list also told Santa what he did for a living?

As if reading his mind, Santa quickly responded, "You're a 'health coach,' aren't you?  Whatever that is."

"How did you know--?" but Hank stopped himself before he ruined the magic.  "That's right.  That's impressive." Then after a short pause. "A health coach is someone who is very knowledgeable about how to live more healthily, both in terms of what we consume nutritionally, as well as how much we exercise.  I happen to be a holistic health coach."

"What's that?"

"Well, let's just say that I don't advocate conventional medicine's hocus pocus or Big Pharma's magic potions.  Instead, I inform people about natural alternatives that can not only prevent disease but treat it without mostly unnecessary surgery, chemicals with unlimited harmful side-effects, or dangerous experimental, even-if-popular medical treatments.  'Mother nature provides all the healing medicines we need to live happy, healthy lives'--that's our motto."

Santa wondered if maybe he could enlist Hank into his quest to feel better.  It didn't take long for him to acquaint the holistic medicine Wiz with his precarious situation.  Although he didn't talk for very long, Santa left nothing out of his predicament.  Hank listened without interrupting much. 

"So what's your daily diet like, Santa--if you don't mind my asking?"

"Oh, I mostly eat milk and cookies.  When I hang out with the elves, I mostly drink power drinks, carbonated drinks, light alcoholic drinks and fancy coffee drinks.  Otherwise, since I am mostly on the run, I eat at fast food restaurants, at cheap buffets and at home.  Since the missus ain't much of a cook and I don't cook at all, I eat lots of TV dinners and processed foods.  Why, does it really matter what we eat?"

Hank was amazed that Santa Claus could be so nutrition-ignorant but, then again, that only made him a typical, blinders-wearing, gullible, and obedient modern consumer--except maybe for the spiffy outfit, the hoary beard, and his penchant to deliver a present to most people alive on Christmas day. 

"What we eat sure does matter, Santa.  In fact, by not getting the nutrients your body needs, you open yourself to the many chronic diseases that have become prevalent only in the last 100 years.  A lack of nitrilosides (i.e., Vitamin B17), commonly found in fruits and vegetables grown organically, for example, is the main reason cancer is out of control these days.  But cancer is only the tip of the iceberg. 

"People in the past didn't suffer from the many allergies, autoimmune disorders and chronic diseases that are at pandemic proportions lately.  That's a fact.  It's sad that we can prevent many (if not most) of the diseases burdening mankind today simply by improving most people's diets.  For others, we can probably treat diseases that today supposedly require painful, expensive and mostly-ineffective conventional medicine treatments!"

"Well, young man, do you think you can help me?  If I change my diet, what can I expect in terms of better health?"

"The sky is the limit, Santa.  You'll lose much of that mostly-unnecessary, disease-promoting fat you're carrying around, especially around the mid-section.  You'll breathe better, have fewer aches, feel more stamina, develop fewer long-term, serious medical problems and, most important of all, you'll live longer--not to mention a higher quality of life!"

"But what about my many fans, Hank . . . those who leave me milk and cookies every Christmas?"

"Educate them, Santa.  Tell them they're being nutritionally irresponsible.  There is very little nutrition in 'cookies.' And cow milk is for calves not human beings.  But, if you must have milk, get the natural kind that isn't full of nasty pesticides, hormones and antibiotics.  That goes for everything you eat.  Buy organic whenever you can and, by all means, eat lots of fruits and vegetables but, to get away from the carcinogenic, teratogenic and mutagenic poisons in most fruits and vegetables these days, grow your own or buy from local farmers that only use natural or proven-to-be-safe herbicides and insecticides."

Santa learned a lot that evening.  He also had a wonderful time with a family that appreciated his presence and eagerly listened to his tales of adventures from all over the world.  They especially enjoyed the tale entitled "The Snowgres from Weelie Hee."  Weelie Hee was seedy, economically-depressed part of the North Pole.

It was about a race of Polar-bear-like creatures that could only be found on the Northern part of the planet.  Supposedly having sprung from snow itself, their names were a combination of the words "snow" and "ogres."  The thing was that they were neither as beautiful-looking as snow, nor as merely-mean and sour-tempered as "ogres."  They were, in fact, much more fierce than ogres.  In a word, they were "deadly."

Santa found himself stranded on one of the coldest spots on earth one not-so-fine day.  Knowing that a storm was coming, he set up camp for the night.  After building his igloo using blocks of snow and ice, he built a fire, allowing for the extra heat to dissipate through a wide hole on the ceiling of the igloo.  Soon after finishing his makeshift home (at least for the night), howling winds and dangerously freezing temperatures struck the area. He snuggled with his three remaining reindeers (one had succumbed to the cold), thinking that his troubles were over for the night.  He was wrong.

A group of hungry and foul-speaking Snowgres surrounded his hut.  They proceeded to call him names and challenge him to a snow tool duel.  As if mad, a white, frothy spittle fell from their un-brushed-though-sharp-looking teeth.  Usually rude and mean-spirited, this group was especially menacing on this night.  They were giving Santa and his "useless animals" two choices:  get out and split the scene on their own or get pulled out by force.  Although the first choice didn't guarantee his safety, they admitted, they assured him that the second choice would mean sure, undisputed "death!"

Santa, a former mercenary who was well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, explosives and how to properly wrap presents, remained cool.  He knew that panicking was the worst thing he could do.  On the other hand, these Snowgres appeared to mean business. It was best if they were not underestimated.  So, as fast as he could, he developed a plan which he hoped would get him out of this dilemma. 

At first he thought that maybe he and his reindeers could just make a hasty run for it but he rejected that idea almost as fast as he thought of it.  No, the situation called for a more aggressive albeit cautious approach.  After all, the Snowgres outnumbered Santa and his four-legged companions.

"My friends," Santa said submissively as he kneeled before the Snowgres, "welcome to my humble abode.  I and my reindeer are your servants. Please come in so we can wash your feet and serve you.  Please, please, come in."

The Snowgres were, of course, confused but this kind of groveling was hard to reject.  Accordingly, they willingly followed Santa into the igloo.  Fortunately, there was plenty of space since Santa always thought "big" when building things.

Before serving them food and water, Santa suggested that the Snowgres let him give them a flu shot.  "These shots will protect you from the flu, my friends; the government guarantees that these shots won't hurt you.  What's more trustworthy than the government?  Form an obedient, single-file tight line--that's right.  That didn't hurt, did it?"

Amazingly, like a bunch of gullible senior citizens, the Snowgres took their shots.  Needless to say, all of them ended up getting the flu, dying or undergoing nasty complications.  They were, accordingly, too sick to pose a threat to Santa or his harmless reindeer.  Being more decent and conscientious than they were, though, Santa stayed with the Snowgres long enough to make sure that those who didn't die would recover, albeit aware that many of them would now need medical attention for the rest of their "useless" lives. 

Santa felt sorry to have resorted to such a dirty, reprehensible "trick" but at least he hadn't used flu shots to line his pockets with what can only be called "blood profits" or to help implement a heinous global depopulation agenda but, rather, to defend himself from a potentially lethal attack by polar-bear-like thugs.  In other words, his was a desperate self-defense reaction. 

Because of his quick thinking, he and his reindeer were able to go on their merry way without as much as a scratch or a bruise. 

In fact, without fighting, without losing his temper and even without acting like an Ogre himself (although giving anyone a flu shot was a "blow below the belt," some people might say), Santa protected what was his; he even turned an imminent attack into an opportunity to do something philanthropic--i.e., saving his and his reindeer's lives.  Sparky and his family were, of course, impressed, but that went without saying. 

When Santa got back to the North Pole, he eagerly implemented all the suggestions Hank had equipped him with.  The rumour is that some people were disappointed because he was no longer fat and jiggly (although he was still jolly) but, when they found out he was in great physical shape--not to mention the fact that he looked a decade younger--they accepted him in spite of his newly-found (by bad-diet-lauding modern standards) "faults."

True, some people de-friended him on Facebook but for every simpleton that did that, two other people asked to be "friends." Big Food and Big Pharma were also upset and they did their best to discredit him and to unseat him from his place in American lore but, thankfully, it was of no use.  Most people not only accepted but loved dearly the new Santa Claus . . . also known as Father Christmas in the UK.

And everyone lived happily ever after . . . if by "everyone" we mean all those people who, like Santa, started eating better, exercising more regularly and not succumbing to the ubiquitous propaganda of the "Making-You-Sick-Heinously-On-Purpose" (acronym:  "M.Y.S.H.O.P."), So-They-Can-Profit-from-Your-Sickness (acronym: S.T.i.C.k.P.e.o.p.l.e.F.Y.r.S.t.) ogres. 

The End

Copyright, 2016.  Fred Fletcher.  All rights reserved.

From the book Politically Incorrect Short Stories (OFF), available in bookstores and from online vendors in early 2017; re-printed with permission from the author(s).