The Night Bourbon Stole Christmas

June 24, 2009 // 7:31 pm

santa-drunk1

By Michael James Nelson

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring and I had no pants on. (Awkward silence) I sleep naked. (Awkward silence) Anyway, I was lying in bed having trouble falling asleep because I was filled with excitement, reviewing the gifts I wanted Santa to bring me: new clothes, a new black Range Rover, and LOST actress Evangeline Lilly. But, little did I know that this would be the craziest Christmas ever… ever… ever.

For many years, Santa never ate the cookies or drank the milk I left for him to enjoy. What a slap in my face, no? I mean, seriously, I leave him a treat and he won’t even touch it? He won’t accept my thanks? But, for some odd reason, I kept leaving him treats and after a while I got pissed and decided that one day he would bite and I was determined to capture that moment.

In ‘85, I set up a MacGyver-esque contraption that would take Santa’s picture if he were to lift the glass of milk. In ‘90, I upped the technology by setting up a video camera. But, after reviewing the tape, in the last moments of the battery’s life, I watched my uncle grab a cookie.

So this year, I would make sure he enjoyed my treats. This year, I would finally get the thanks and appreciation I deserved. This year, keeping his apparent dislike for cookies and milk in mind, I would leave out a dish that no crazy fat man could ever resist: wings and bourbon.

I threw it all together and went to bed, snuggled in a sea of blankets, too excited to sleep. I tried the age-old trick of counting sheep, but all of them had the shits and kept pooping on my face. I guess they had eaten about two hours prior. Anyway, after a couple hours of struggle, my eyes slowly started to get heavy and as they shut for sleep, I smiled and muttered, “Your move big man. Your move…”

The next morning, I awoke to the sweet chirping birds and crusty eye boogers. After clearing the boogers, I realized it was 6:00 a.m. and Christmas had arrived. I jumped out of bed and ran down the hallway. I dashed around the corner, into the family room and my body froze at the site of the dish… the wings were gone with only a slight trace of barbecue sauce, the bourbon was half empty (half full for you optimists, time to buy another bottle for you drunks) How interesting,” I said, rubbing my chin.

I stood there perplexed and then I heard it. It was coming from behind me. I slowly turned around. My eyes focused on the couch. And there he was, outfit and all. It was Santa Claus. He was passed out, snoring, with an open cell phone on his chest. As I approached him, I could see that the screen on the phone displayed, “Last call: Emily.” I assumed it was an ex or a little “something-something” on the side.

His bourbon-capacitated breath forced me to turn my head slightly to the side for gag prevention. He suddenly jerked and I almost fainted from the scare, “What the…where am I? Rudolph. Blitzen,” he yelled, scrambling. Then, he passed out, cold.

Seeing Santa drunk and unconscious causes your mind to ignite into speculation. You sort of leave that picture of Santa being this perfect, loveable, jolly old man and move closer to the Santa that comes home late after a long night at the North Pole Gentlemen’s Club, hammered and ready to show Mrs. Claus that he still “has it.” Or, the Santa that gets liquored-up and takes the sleigh out for a spin, only to end up hanging upside-down from a tree? And no one can forget the time the elves set up an intervention and Santa arrived with a fresh Bourbon soaked beard. And nipple clamps, hammered. What a mess that guy. Tough times.

All I knew was that I had to get him in tiptop shape and do it quick. My family would be up within the hour and so would our neighbors, but more importantly, what about all the children that would miss Christmas due to my selfishness? What about all the little kids around the world that would run to the tree only to find that below its branches was nothing but open space? I screwed up, I got Santa wasted out of his mind and I had to make it right. I had to get Santa up and off my couch and back in his sled. I had to save Christmas.

Carrying Santa out of the house was a real bitch, but I knew I had to do it before everyone was awake. As I dragged Santa out to our side yard, he kept going in-and-out of consciousness, often screaming the names of his reindeer. When we got outside, he screamed again. “Rudolph!” Suddenly, eight reindeer flew down from the roof.

The eight reindeer landed and we eyeballed each other for a solid minute. Silence. I cautiously watched them and they cautiously watched me. No sudden movements. I couldn’t believe it. I was staring at Santa’s reindeer! And then it hit me. The one reindeer in the front, with the red nose, was actually Rudolph. “Holy shit, your Rudolph.” I said. “I can’t even… I’ve studied you my entire life!” I was star struck.

Rudolph looked at me and it looked like he wanted to bask in the praise, you know, maybe he doesn’t get to stop and talk to fans, but then he snapped out of it, lowered his head and sniffed Santa. “Not again,” he said in a thick Boston accent. “Miss clause is gonna be wicked pissed.”

“You can talk?” I said, amazed.

“This shocks you?” Rudolph asked, as he chuckled with his fellow reindeer.

“Well, reindeer don’t usually talk,” I said.

“Reindeer don’t usually fly either, Sherlock.” He snapped back. “Alright, enough, we gotta move and we gotta move fast.”

Over the next ten minutes, we sobered Santa up by holding his face over a sprinkler. After three spurts of consciousness, Santa stood up and was briefed on the situation. Some barbecue sauce still stained his beard. I got him some Aspirin and told him that I was a big fan. Santa was pleasant, but he had to get moving because the neighborhood was beginning to stir to life. He suddenly jumped into his slay, snapped the reins, and the reindeer pulled him high into the sky.

A little light headed by the experience, I waved goodbye. Then, Santa actually turned around and waved back. I smiled. He threw something at me. I caught it. It was a small box with a ribbon on top. I opened it and laughed. “You son of a bitch,” I said as I grabbed what was inside the box. I looked up at Santa again as he disappeared into the clouds. Then, I looked back down at my gift. It was a glossy picture of LOST actress Evangeline Lilly.