The Santa Situation

Santa Claus and I get stuck in an elevator.

THE SANTA SITUATION

         My head guy, Dr. Highhopper, thought it would be beneficial for me to put down on paper my Santa situation. So, here it is:

         The thought of Santa Claus causes me to become physically ill. Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s not what you think. I’ve always had a deep admiration for Santa and the wonderment behind the tradition for which he stands, but he still makes me sick. Every time I see the jolly fellow on a Christmas card, or sipping a Coke, or at a mall, or even when I hear his name in song or verse, the churning begins. If I don’t hasten to exit the situation, the consequences can be both messy and embarrassing.
         My affliction to Santa Claus is the direct result of going out of my way to assist a man whom I did not know. The guy was one of twenty-six people who attended the company’s Christmas party. He was dressed in a Santa Claus suit and really looked and acted the part (chubby; white beard; lots of ho, ho, ho-ing). No one had a clue as to who the person was, but all celebrated his presence. Santa was the life of the party.
         As the evening progressed, Santa made full use of the open bar and buffet table. His glass and plate were never empty. He imbibed anything wet and chowed down food like there was no tomorrow. Santa’s appetite and thirst were not to be equaled.
         Around 11:00 the party began to break-up. I could see Santa was in no condition to drive home, so I offered him a ride. The two of us staggered to the elevator. I pushed the down button and we waited for the next available car. Within a minute or two, the elevator door slid open and we, Santa, looking a bit green around the gills, and I entered. I hit the lobby button, the door closed and we began our decent.
         It was somewhere between the thirteenth and twelfth floors, and halfway through the second verse of Jingle Bells, that the elevator ground to a slow, unanticipated stop. Within seconds of stopping the lights flickered and then went completely out, leaving Santa and me in the dark.
         Santa, as best as his soused tongue would allow, slurred, “Wu-zappened? Whyzit zo darkin ‘ere?”
         I reached in my pocket for my phone, but it wasn’t there; I must have left it at the party.
         “Something’s wrong with the elevator, Santa; we’re stuck. Give me your phone.”
         “Home? Yeah, Sanna wanna go home.”
         “You got a match or maybe a flashlight?”
         “Sanna duzn’t play wid mashas. An' who needs a fashlie when ya got Rudolph?”
         “Yeah, right. Does Santa Claus have an idea how to get us out of here?”
         “May-eee we can ged unstuck if we shump up an' down.”
         “No, we better not do any jumpin’.”
         And so it was, Santa and I waited to be rescued. Then, Santa spoke those six words I'll never forget: “I’m sick. “I’m gonna throw up.”
          “Oh, God, Santa, not here, not…"
         Before I could finish my plea, the unsettled mixture of everything Santa ate spewed forth in retching torrents, splattering onto the floor of the elevator. As awful as the situation was, Santa, unfortunately, had more to give: a sudden and acute case of diarrhea. It didn’t take long before I too was pukin’. The ghastly combination of chunky vomit and loose defecation produced such a stench, it made breathing nearly impossible. The thought of how wonderful it would be to be dead crossed my mind.
         Three hours after Santa and I entered the elevator, firemen pried the door open. Gagging at the sight and smell, they escorted us from the confines of what now resembled a backed-up toilet. Santa and I were transported to Mercy General, cleaned up and sent on our merry way. I made it a point to distance myself from Santa, who, by the way, was ho-ho-hoing as he merrily strode down the walkway and around the corner out of view.
         I understand my affliction is psychosomatic, but the sight, sounds, and smells of Santa pukin’ and poopin’ in that elevator is rekindled every time anything having to do with merry old Mr. Claus crosses my eyes or enters my ears.
         If you’ll excuse me, I have to take a brake from finishing my Santa Situation. I’m certain you understand why. Sorry.

WC: 737