A fairy tale for all times

He’d had it. Sitting on top of the mountain listening to Eartha Kitt slaughter “Santa Baby” had lost its glow, and it didn’t help that yesterday he’d finally located his last pair of heated socks in the freezer next to the venison jerky he’d made for breakfast. He was getting forgetful.

The old lady, his mate of too many years, did nothing to ease his problems. She had her own problems and was lately given to working out 24/7 on her Schwinn Aero-Dyne bike, trying to regain her gone-south figure. When he hauled her sweet self up the mountain centuries ago, he never imagined she’d fall into rack and ruin. These days, he did all of the cooking, washing and cleaning. Lemon Pledge was his best friend.

He’d had it. This would be his last trip down the mountain and into the Valley Malls where anything could happen. No more screaming kids with dripping noses and loaded diapers; no more false promises that yes, even though mommy and daddy were out of work, Santa could maybe perhaps bring on a BMW that would rock their dismal lives.

Time to ditch the beard and call it a day.

The final blow came at dawn when he found the last of his reindeer (Schnecken) stiff as a board, the victim of hoof and mouth disease. What was he thinking when he ordered a herd from Choo Wu, a purveyor of exotica in far away China? As for Rudolph of red-nose fame, she kicked the bucket last week. After that, it was all downhill.

Okay, so time to get out the sheet of cardboard and slide down the mountain for the final fling. At least he’d be leaving Eartha Kitt behind, and the old lady would be safe and sound, sweating on her Aero-Dyne. Dressed in his best red spandex, beard and hat and boots at the ready, he smoked his final cigarette before plunging down the mountain and into the gaping jaws of the Valley residents who waited to devour what was left of him. One more trip. He was throwing in the towel.

He fully intended to shave his beard and get a life when he returned. He’d smash Santa Baby to smithereens, ignore the old lady, maybe get some Botox injections and do something about his ever-creeping bald spot. Plus he intended to vote for the Democrats in next year’s elections. He knew full well who’d been bad and who’d been good. It came with the job. Tucked in his bag were extra lumps of coal for Cain and a poisoned chocolate in the shape of Texas for Perry. About Romney, he was uncertain. Something wasn’t kosher.

Back on the mountain after a hard day’s night, he sat with his Android tablet, plotting his days. Perhaps he’d trek to China and find Mr. Choo Wu. Or maybe become a cabaret singer in Vegas. As a youngster he’d often dreamed about life’s myriad possibilities, but somehow he had gotten snared in spending his years as a red-clad freak. It wasn’t all bad (except handling screamers with loaded diapers), and, well, some of it he’d actually miss.

The eggnog and last year’s fruit cake laced with Wild Turkey; the cards, lights and Aunt Eunice’s endless scarves and mittens, hand-knitted in mauve and puce. It’s true, he harbored a certain fondness for faux trees and Sno-In-A-Can, and even the creepy crawlies that infested his beard when he wasn’t looking.

As he turned off the light, he bid to all a good night. No more sounds of reindeer paws up on the rooftop; no nothing. While visions of no sugar plums danced in his head, he closed his eyes and drifted off to dream about a perfect world occupied by Democrats, genuine Progressives, and no Newts bearing gifts of compassionate caring.

All in all, life is a roll of the dice worth dreaming about. Santa knows.