Santa talks to single moms.

October 15th, 2011

(This is a rerun from 2007. I wouldn’t have to stoop to reruns if somebody could tutor me in this new version of WordPress software. I can’t figure out how to upload images.)

In a way, I guess I’m lucky the ice is gone. Paulette — or Mrs. Santa to the world — left me. She did it for the reasons Mrs. Santas one, two, three, and four left me: women don’t like living on top of ice.

Actually, my house is toasty warm and, for that, I share a lot of the blame of global devastation. But I made little boys and girls happy for centuries. In addition, since I moved toy production to China, my carbon footprint is way far to the south. That might count for something. But the move is too little, too late for my lovely. And I am letting go with love. Because that’s who I am.

I don’t have any regrets because Paulette, who was my first what you’d call trophy wife (very hot — think Charo in the 50s) lowered her eyes and admitted I was the “Best fuck. Period.” She said her favorite memories are the times we did it in the elves-evator (sure, it’s a bad pun, but that’s what they called it — and for good reason: it wasn’t much bigger than a dumb-waiter). Paulette says I won’t have any trouble finding another wife. But as much time as I’m spending in Hangchow, the next Mrs. Santa will be from the Fuquan Province. It’s in my toy contract.

One thing about Christmas Eve is that in about one in a hundred of the households you’ve got a very attractive single mother sitting up late. I usually just go about my business and I’m in and out in ten one-millionths of a second. But that one-in-a-hundred adds up to quite a few million very fine ladies — and Santa pretty much has a choice.

I’m not fat, either, and chicks is exactly why. When I spend a couple minutes with any serious candidates for Mrs. Santahood, I pull out the padding and show off my middle. Not all ripped abs, but not the flab I had when I was 400. Years — not pounds. I never weighed over 350.

I hope all this sits well with the good women of Fuquan. Maybe they like the old ideal. You know, the Emperor is fat. That means wealthy. But remember, I’m checking out every lady on earth. And if I have to have one from somewhere else, it’s not that hard to break a contract. Plenty of good lawyers in Beijing that would love a sleigh-ride to the mountains.

I’m sorry. I keep going on. It’s always me me me with me. Well, that’s what you get. Bad news first, right? The good news is you become the First Lady of the Whole World. And for more than eight years. I’ve had five wives over five centuries. You get to live to be as old as you want — as long as I still love you. But the average is a hundred years. How can you beat that?

Well, the ice is gone. Boo hoo hoo. My castle in China is ready for stuccoing and I’m moving in in August. Hear that, ladies? And it’s on top of one of those mountains that are so steep you think you dreamed them. And it’s got air-conditioning. And fireplaces in every room, so you can have a fire in the hot-ass summertime if you want.

I’m not doing any serious looking until very late, December 24th. So keep it in mind when you’re deciding on a bedtime and whether or not you want to wear a nightie.

I’m looking for number six, and you’re looking to send your kids to college.

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