Part IV

(An email sent on 26 December 2009)

Ah-choo.
Bloody hell.
Ah-choo.
Stupid code.
Led me jud kick back thid andi-congedtant.

Ok. Whew. Ok. Dammit I’ve had this cold for a year. There really is no cure. So for those of you who haven’t been paying attention (and a year is a long time to remember) – Santa Claus is evil. And he will die by my hands. Life mission (and what not).

Last year, I intended to use a bit of bacterial warfare against the bastard, but the booby trapped cardboard reindeer sex toy ‘somehow’ found its way back to me. Unfortunately I had let my guard down, believing that my plan had finally succeeded; and after three years, I finally opened a present.

It exploded in my face.
And I caught this cold.
A card was included. “Pigs will fly before you get me! Merry Xmas! Love, Santa”.

I had gotten a serious bout of influenza and he was mocking me! But trust me, Herr Klaus one day I’ll be standing over your body saying, “Well Santa, the swine flew...the swine flew...”

Anyway getting sick is not a good enough excuse for ignoring one’s life mission (and what not). I decided a good start was to go into hiding for a bit. Regroup. The Claus would know I wasn't dead and it would be in his character to hunt me down while I was in a weakened state just so as to kick me.

So I took a trip to Mexico. I had heard ancient tales of Takeela Mokkingbed and his long standing traditions of knocking people out (that ridiculously bad pun is enough to knock anyone out). Unfortunately after only two hours in the country, I accidentally sneezed on a bearded dude named Heysoos Cristoe. He muttered something about woodwork and making fish sandwiches. He was obviously drunk (what happens when you drink wine like water); so I told him that Heysoos was a stupid name. That made him pretty cross. Then he started sneezing and died. I shrugged and thought that Mexico was a pretty shitty place and came back home before I caught something else.

I spent a lot of time thinking up ways to kill Santa (life mission (and what not)). In fact, I spent so much time devising methods to kill Santa that I stopped working. Luckily I had a credit card to purchase the large number (and extremely expensive) tools that I needed for my next scheme(s).

(Some of the) Shit That I Bought

1. Three hundred thousand bathtub ducks.
2. Four billion balls of string.
3. An ice cream.
4. 50 tons of raw materials to build a lair (henceforth known as the Cat Cave (in honour of my dead pet chicken, Cat; and that weird seagull, Cat2 (also deceased)).
5. A new toothbrush.

Of course, there was some (lots of) other stuff. Eventually some guy in a suit and tie came around asking about payment and I told him to go fly a kite (of which I had 23 thousand), but he cut me off. In fact he cut up my credit cards. So I took out a couple (16) loans. Banks will really lend money to anyone these days. I also re-seeded my lawn.

Financial matters aside, I locked myself into the Cat Cave, brushed my teeth...and got back on track (life mission (and what not)).

Santa.
Must.
(At the very least)...
Die.

I needed to find a weakness. A chink in his almost impenetrable armour. I needed to analyse why I had failed. And learn from my mistakes.

	Problem	Lesson Learnt
2006	Too obvious. Amateurish	Underestimated opponent. Assumed fat men were stupid. Fat men aren’t stupid. They’re just fat (for layers of evil).
2007	Covert mission behind enemy lines. Impatient. A lot of good work undone by rushing in, fake cameras blazing.	Don’t mix reconnaissance and attack (also don’t prematurely attackulate).
2008	Good plan. Well executed. Let guard down.	Never let guard down until three bullets are put into an already dead body. And lemmings have eaten whatever’s left.

Having spent the better part of a day coming up with that, I concluded that I had learnt fuck all and I was pretty useless at making lists. With my mind in deep concentration, my code monkey multitasking skills kicked in and when I awoke I had invented a giant hamster wheel and genetically engineered a giant hamster (it’s amazing the shit you can do once you figure out how to use Google (Sleep Googling – it’s a thing! (Well it is!!! (Google it)))).

I watched the hamster running in the wheel for an hour. Round and round. Going nowhere. But running because honestly there isn't much more for a big giant one-of-a-kind hamster to do (no life missions (and what nots)). I ignored any philosophical epiphanies and named him Cat the Third.

But the giant hamster wheel had given me an idea. Santa Claus is evil because he has time to be evil. This is because Xmas comes but once a year. Giving him 364 days of free time (free time equals evil squared (that’s a lot of evil)).

Now imagine if you will – a fat man, dressed in thick polyester. Carrying a sack. Travelling with twelve randy antelope. Running across rooftops. Breaking and entering. Hitting the occasional strip club. Playing a few holes with Tiger Woods (um...cough). Well Santa, what if you had to do it every day?

All I had to do was make everyday...Christmas.

So this begs the question. How exactly did Xmas come around? Why do we celebrate the holiday?

Well the short, kiddies version is that some woman who never did the dirty tango gave birth to a carpenter who did some magic and died a few years later.

This is partially true. Here’s the full director’s cut story.

Joseph and Mary Christ was an average couple fannying about in Jerusalem. All was well in the world until one night Joseph came home drunk and instead of playing with his own 'scythe' he decided to put it into Mary's toolshed without the customary sheath. Mary, of course, was more than happy that Joseph wasn't hammering for the other team, as she often suspected and took it like a man (so to speak).

Nine months later Joseph Junior was born (this was changed to Jesus because Joseph Junior was what Joseph called his...um...scythe).

He wasn't born in a barn, by the way. It was in a bar. Mary's water broke and Joseph, overcome by the sight, stopped for a drink at the nearest bar - The North Star. The three wise men was actually one (fairly bright) barman seen after eight straight shots of whiskey.

Anyway, skip ahead a few years. Jesus was being bred to build chairs and tables (for the local strip club) but all Jesus wanted was to stick some cards up his sleeve and do a few good tricks. And he was an excellent showman. Like when he walked on the surface of the Dead Sea; it was so convincing that his audience began cheering and declaring miracles (which totally drowned out Moses (the Blaine to Jesus’ Copperfield) screaming that he was ‘standing on a flippin sand bar’).

Anyway, as with all good magicians, he was threatened to be nailed to a stick and rocked to death. Bad magicians were called witches and burnt at the stake. Great magicians kept quiet about it and became king.

Anyway, Jesus saw this as a chance to escape his life of carpentry. With the help of his assistant (and ‘special friend’) Judas, he pulled a Romeo and Juliet with a bit of sleeping potion (drunk from a leaky cup).

The people cheered when he died and stuck him in a cave. He woke up a couple days later and buggered off.

And this is the really, really secret part.

He buggered off North. Where no one would find him. For years, he developed strange fetishes and his father’s tendencies for alcohol and ho ho ho’s came to fruition. He put on weight. And he changed his name.

To Santa Claus.

Yes.

Now you know what Jesus did.

Ok, history lesson over.

What defines Xmas? Because now, even with all that history, the simple fact is that Xmas has nothing to do with Christ. The need for gifts. Exorbitant prices. Force feeding joy down people’s throats. Millions of annoying adverts. Bad day time TV movies. Chopping up trees and dressing them up in colourful, electrified bondage. Songs about bells and snow and Santa Claus (so I guess coincidentally, it does mean that it is still about Christ (who would’ve guessed)). Millions and millions of people being blindly led by pop culture.

I realised that that was the key. If I managed to convince a few million people to expect Santa on, let’s say, August 12th, then he’d either have to fulfil that obligation or stop existing altogether. Kind of like how Tinkerbell almost died (the first and only case of the clap being used to save a life).

All I needed was a medium where I could have access to millions of people who could easily be swayed by my propaganda. A medium that people unwittingly trusted. A medium where people wouldn't even know that they were being used...

I logged onto Facebook.

I created a Santa Claus profile. Created a few applications, a couple polls and other fancy Facebook thingamabobs.

(Some of) The shit I did on Facebook

• Group: ‘Xmas everyday’
• Group: ‘Ho Ho Ho Ho...’ – add another ho. Invite a ho. Be a ho.
• Poll: Are you
• a) Naughty
• b) Nice
• c) Don’t worry – I know Santa likes them both
• Application: ‘Do not send a gift’ – because Santa is the only one doing the giving around here.
• Group: ‘Join This Group’ – because you have nothing better to do (epiphany?).

Within 14 minutes I had already gained 520,000 friends and my groups were thriving. And then I dropped the bomb.

• New Event: Xmas party. 10th November. Attend or Celebrate. All online. I need you to believe!

It became the biggest attended function Facebook ever saw. Xmas wishlists grew overnight asking for Guy Fawkes’ related toys. Turkeys for Thanksgiving in stockings. It was going to be legendary.

Santa was going to work his ass off on the eve of the ninth. And then I’d make it the eve of the 16th, and then the 25th...of NOVEMBER!!!

The 10th rolled around. And sure enough, all over the world, virtual stockings were hung and expectant eyes closed early and ears listened for the pitter patter of feet on the rooftops over the pitter patter of gunfire on the street.

New York. Berlin. Birmingham.

And not one word from Santa.

The 16th rolled around. Another world wide celebration. And still not even a mouse.

Well actually there was the sound of a mouse. My mouse clicking tirelessly everyday pushing people to believe what I told them.

Were you a part of it?

And finally yesterday. Real Xmas. And I’m pretty sure Santa was out in ditch somewhere wondering where the hell he’s was going to find the energy to do it all again.

And I’ve survived it. It’s the 26th.

I’m alive.

Meaning...I’ve won? Xmas is over and I’m alive!!!

Correction, I’m near death. I mean updating my status on Facebook and adding useless and pretty pointless applications for the last few months has certainly taken it out of me. You’d have to be starkers to do this for fun. In fact today was the first day I didn’t have to open Facebook. I should probably take a look.

Ah, new pictures. Ah, there are some weird Lebanese people celebrating Xmas. Some Muslim guy burning an effigy of Santa (Like!). And hey, TAG. It’s Cat the Third.

Wait.

Hang on. How’d he get out of the Cat Cave? And why is it snowing in the picture? And why does that big cat ( zoom in IfYouCanReadThisNameTagYou'reAlreadyDead) have Cat the Third’s oversized back paw in his mouth???

No, it couldn’t be...That bastard.

Hang on. I’ve just got a mail (Facebook message...duh).

From: Kris(t) Kringle
Subject: Merry Xmas 

OMG, did u realy tink dis wud work? U shuld c FB's privacy policy. I new wat u were doin be4 u even thawt of it. I didn hav 2 'fulfil' da 'obligation'. Nothin in FB is real. I haz facebook frenz not reals frenz. Appz r dum. FB dnt equate 2 a real life. In fact, I is Mark Zuckerberg (lol :-)) 

XoXo
Santa Claus
PS Cat the Third was alot of fun...nom nom nom
PPS Now I no everything (not dat dere was much I didn no). But who ur friends r, & ur likes,
dislikes & all the otha info u rather stupidly put on the net. FB rox.
PPPS ROFL (i.e. ho ho ho on the floor)

FUCK.
Ok, don’t panic.
Um.
Fuck it.
Panic.

Kamal

PS Hope you had a Merry Xmas. Catch you guys in the New Year (if I live to see it).
PPS You know the part where he said that he knows who my friends are???? Yes...um...that’s you. You’re on his list now. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
PPPS Just a by the way (BTW). Inappropriate, excessive, use of keyboard aided IM language. Man, that bastard really knows how to push my buttons. Foul. Offside. Thierry Henry (aka handball). Red Card.

Part III

(An email sent on the 26th December 2008)

Hey

So I guess you’re wondering…how did he get out…

To catch up the stragglers (and don’t we all just love the voiceover guy – ‘previously on Santa Claus Must Die…’)

Santa Claus is an evil git.
A fat evil git.
And he needs to be stopped.

I have made it my life’s mission to stop the fat bastard by any and all means possible.

It’s the most amount of effort I’ve ever put into anything. Last year, I ended up in the North Pole and after my best efforts at subterfuge had been seen through, I was captured. And that’s the last you had heard from me. A prisoner of the fat man, left to die alone in an ice igloo prison; living off the kindness of a seagull who took to dropping food to me, I suspect, because it was stupid.

As a matter of interest, I had named the seagull Cat2 in the memory of my pet chicken, Cat, who was so far the only tragic victim in my war against the Claus. May she cluck in peace.

So how did I get out of that prison?

Well it was actually pretty simple. Around New Year’s Day, I got tired of sitting in a cold wet room. Actually the thing that annoyed me most was sitting in a room without corners. You only think it’s easy.
So I decided to tunnel my way out thinking if Andy could do it...

So knees to ground, I started to dig. Wasn’t easy. Actually I didn’t progress at all unless you count sliding from one end of the igloo to the other (‘end’ is a term I use loosely seeing as I was in a round room). I needed some sort of digging device and yes, I was a spade short of a toolshed.

While thinking about it, Cat2 turned up, as the fates would have it, without any food.

So I ate her. One always thinks better on a full stomach, and Cat2’s leftover beak would make a great digging device (I surmised after accidentally sitting on it).

So I began digging. After three hours and two centimetres down, I surmised that digging down was stupid and attacked the roof instead. The nice thing about an igloo, you’ll find if you’re ever trapped in one, is that it’s pretty much blocks of ice held together by itself.

After an hour of careful chipping, a big block fell out of the roof and resulted in much cursing and clutching of my left foot (it should have been ten minutes but I spent a lot of the time using the beak as a hand puppet and talking to myself). And so I climbed out…to what you would think would be freedom.

Good thing that you’d be right.
That was a year ago.

Now, more intelligent people would put it down as a lucky escape, hang up their machine guns in their booby trapped stockings and call it a day.

Not me.

If there’s one thing I learnt about myself when I was trapped by the Dalai Lama is that I know how to hold a grudge.

I immediately compiled all that I knew about Santa and all that I had managed to learn in my undercover operation before being caught. Knowledge, after all, takes up less space than videos on your hard-drive.

Shit I know about Santa (aka That Fat Bastard)

1. He’s fat and has a beard. 
2. He has a preference for red suits and lady’s underwear (don’t ask me how I know that). 
3. Common knowledge is that he likes cookies and milk. This is a lie. He actually likes banana cake and hot chocolate (what were you expecting?).
4. He likes children and keeps a special list of the naughty ones. He likes to make them sit on his knee so he can tell them how he’s going to give it to them on Xmas morning. (Sounds sick doesn't it?).
5. HE KNOWS. How much does he know, you may ask. Well he knows what Jesus would do!
6. He killed my pet chicken, Cat (and God knows how many other innocent chickens!).
7. He likes reindeer pornography. 
8. His sleigh runs on diesel. There’s absolutely no reason for twelve helpless deer to run ahead of the sleigh as he whips them with a twelve foot piece of licorice. Also Rudolph’s red nose was the first documented case (although encrypted and classified by the CIA) of a reindeer getting syphilis (think about it).

That was my list. And yes, it wasn't much help. Beyond dressing up as a naughty little boy disguised as a reindeer pretending to like licorice, I was stumped.

By July I was pretty depressed. Really depressed. Even watching Dr. Phil didn't help. And Dr. Phil usually helped. I mean seeing a bald, fat guy from Texas with a weird little Hitler moustache trying to help fat women in pink tracksuits lose five pounds by saying ‘I hate you’ to pictures of their favourite tv dinner is always good for a laugh.

But luckily I snapped out of it.

I came up with a cunning plan.

Being an authority on Geek mythology, I drew inspiration from the Trojan Horse. From August I worked around the clock building a Trojan Horse of my own. Of course it was a hundredth of the size, made of cardboard and contained Anthrax (ok, I couldn’t get my hands on Anthrax so I sneezed on it several times). And it was actually a reindeer. In addition to the common cold (which has no cure, ha ha, take that Santa), I
also included a time bomb.

Old, crude, simple. It’s what I called a classic.

In order to complete the ruse, I made an ad and put it on EBay (Santa’s daily google would definitely pick up ‘reindeer toy for adults’. The bait was set, the trap was ready. And it was still mid August. All I had to do
was wait.

And wait I did. For four months, I waited.

Until three days ago.

One new buyer – alien_vistas. This was an obvious anagram for ‘Santa is evil’ (I mean seriously, anyone should be able to see that immediately’).

With minimal amount of effort I sold my Trojan Reindeer. I loaded it up (sneezed on it twice more), set the bomb’s timer device (tick tick tick boom), taking extra care to cater for the extra hour in the North Pole, and loaded it up with the courier service, Glacier Delivery (It'll get there eventually).

At peace with the world, knowing that it was just a matter of rotations on a small wind up Mickey Mouse clock before the world was finally free of Herr Klaus.

And here we are the day after Xmas. And for once, I’m safe and happy and ready with a thousand hand written ‘I told you so’ notes to distribute amongst my friends.

I wonder what I’m going to do today. No planning. No scheming.

Maybe I should go and mourn Cat. Then maybe go and get some Nandos. Or maybe I should finally get around to writing that book (How I Killed Santa - needs a catchier name though). I could learn
Klingon…or how to use Internet Explorer 7.

But first before I do anything, I need to go and find the source of that damn ticking that’s been coming from under my Xmas tree since yesterday. It’s so annoying.

It’s just this constant tick, tick, tick for like the last 23 hours and fifty nine minutes.

Hang on…

Oh shit…

Kamal

PS: I’m sure it says Merry Xmas.
PPS: I hope you opened your gifts with a sense of foreboding, panic and fear.
PPPS: Ah-chooo

Part II

(An email sent on the 27th of December 2007)

So...cold...

To catch you up, my greatest ambition is to kill Santa Claus and to expose him for the degenerate louse he is. Spreading xmas cheer and handing out gifts as if he didn't have an ulterior motive.

He has an ulterior motive.

And I will bring him down.

Last year's plans, as you all know, ended in mild  tragedy and the fat man still wandered free. I realised the error of my ways - I was thinking too small. My plans were too obvious and transparent. Child's play to a man who knew every game there was, is and will be.

The fat man saw through them all and even had the last laugh (aka the last ho) by giving me a present. Suffice it to say, I didn't even unwrap it, the label reading 'Wishing You A Merry Xmas' - it was an obvious trap. I know for a fact that if there's a nice and naughty list, there's no chance in hell, I'd be on the nice list.

So this year, I implemented a much more in depth plan.

It all began in January...I hiked up to the North Pole and found Santa's secret headquarters hidden deep in
the *CENSORED BY THE CIA - CLASSIFIED DATA*. It took me three weeks to find, but I tripped over a rock and sort of stumbled upon it next to (not inside) a wardrobe.

My next move was to befriend an elf - one of the minion slaves who Santa mercilessly forces to work for him. In a bar slash restaurant called Mama C's Moose Creek Kitchen, I came across an elf named Moose Legs (no relation to Mama). After a few drinks called Blitzens, he became quite talkative and went on about the poor living conditions and how Santa's lap wasn't all it was cracked up to be. With a little nudging in
the right direction, he invited me to come work with him.

So it was in early February that I joined Santa's workforce. The nightmare began.

To fit in, I took to walking around on my knees and donned a tight fitting (and rather flattering) green uniform with a stout green pointed hat and red shoes (which I taped to my knees to keep the illusion going). I was put in charge of putting heads on dolls and I took to this with a great vigour, so as to fit in.

My manager, a kindly elf called Wotchalookinat, took me under his wing and mistook my questions for innocent curiosity rather than my devious reconnaissance mission. I found out that Santa catches elves that wander free in the wild and force them to do his bidding. It's much like the Smurfs and Gargamel but the elves aren't blue and Santa isn't stupid and doesn't have a cat. Or at least a small one.

Meals were week old bread and water. Well there wasn't water. After eating the cardboard loaves, I had to waddle outside and dunk my head into the snow. My suggestion that we should gather snow and melt it was met with a stern look and a week in the cold box.

The cold box is an igloo made out of frozen reindeer droppings that you're shoved
into for a week.

After months of this, I was getting frustrated. Santa worked through a group of closed circuit tvs and I hadn't even seen the man let alone had a chance to rip out his heart and feed it to little frogs. He worked his elves for 25 hours a day (North Pole time) and trust me, eventually putting heads on dolls makes one rather suicidal.

By August, I decided to take my faith into my own hands and I sneaked into Santa's lair. It was a great hall with reindeer pornography lining the walls, and reindeer heads watching over. Santa was surrounded by a large set of monitors and the latest range of Intel and Mapple (a secret union of Microsoft and Apple) products making lists and checking them twice. Using a range of satellites, he could see every person on the planet.

Yes, even you. Right now. Reading this email. HE KNOWS. HE KNOWS THAT YOU KNOW.

Unfortunately, me taking photos using my hands while making snapping noises with my mouth,
aroused his defence system, an old panther named – IfYouCanReadThisNameTagYou'reAlreadyDead. It attacked me by going straight for my jingle bells. Luckily I confused it by standing up and it took a great bite out of my knee instead. This, suffice it to say, was still a problem.

As I was blacking out from the lack of blood, the last thing I saw were two black boots approaching and the last words I heard before losing consciousness was, "Somebody's been a bad boy".

And here I am. In a high security ice igloo. My hopes of surviving are low and the only reason I'm still alive is that a friendly (and confused) seagull who thinks I’m Ted Danson, has been dropping me KFC burgers on a regular basis.

But it's cold.

OMG...someone's coming.

I've got to go.

Kamal

P.S Merry Xmas and hoping your New Year isn't spent trapped in an ice igloo surviving off the kindness of a Seagull (who I've named Cat2, in memory of my dead chicken).

P.P.S HE KNOWS!!!!!!!!

P.P.P.S (send help...please)

Part I

(An email sent on the 26th of December 2006)

Hey

So another Xmas has come and gone. I have many traditions for Xmas. More honestly, I have very few. My one tradition of attempting to capture Santa Claus has, yet again, gone awry.

I came to the conclusion, that for some reason, everyone just accepts the fact that there's this old fat guy and he is the personification of Xmas. More than that, he is allowed the run of the house on the faith that he's going to leave wrapped stuff under your pimped out tree; and the wrapped stuff he leaves, do not contain bombs.

I, being cynical, found this hard to believe (some people choose not to believe in Santa Claus altogether).

So after some hard thinking, I realised, beyond the reason of saving the world, that there was potential in catching Santa. I mean think about it - if I caught Santa, I'd make millions. In marketing alone - the real Santa Claus - Coca Cola for one would pay for my new teeth. Then I could open Santaland where it would be Xmas all year around. Then of course Euro-Santaland and Santaland-Paris.

I could start my own television channel. I’d call it, as far as my creativity has gone so far, the Santa channel. It would show live web cams of Santa twenty four seven.

Considering the fact that the old bastard does nothing for the rest of the year anyway, I figured I could rent him out as a baby sitter or force him to deliver pizza or be a mailman or something. Also the added benefit of having Santa would be that I could figure out what drugs he's taking and where he's keeping the stash. No one is so happy that they actually list being jolly as one of his character traits, considering he’s dealing with children.

Speaking of children, maybe getting a dirty old man who is only interested in children off the streets would be my way of doing my bit for the world. I mean, he gives all the good children presents...what does he do with the children on the 'naughty' list (with a twinkle in his eye)?

So every year, I put into action some plan to capture Santa Claus and finally get some good worth out of him.

My first attempt, back in the days, was simple - the man likes milk and cookies - so I poisoned the milk and cookies (of course being of Indian heritage, this was actually jellebi and tap water). The bastard did not fall for it and the next morning I found my beloved pet chicken (who I had named Cat) dead.

You might be wondering why I named my pet chicken, 'Cat'...well I was the only person on my block who could claim that my cat laid eggs (I sold them for 50 bucks a dozen)).

I spent most of the early 90s training a dog to hate Santa and in '95 I left Fang in wait (he was now shredding pictures of Santa and CNA adverts to shreds). I awoke the next morning to find a letter from Fang saying that he had seen the error of his ways and not to look for him and he preferred to be remembered by the name Puddles instead of Fang.

The list did go on.

This year I went back to basics. I put a bear trap in the chimney and in the belief that he would see through my plan and use the front door, I replaced the doorknob with an exposed nail and put glue on the doormat.

However, it being the 26th and I still don’t have any fat men in my care, it is obvious my plan has failed.

So here's to merry bloody Xmas. And to Santa Claus (a worthy adversary (I hope his reindeer eat him)).

I'll get him next year.

Kamal

P.S. Anyone visiting me, come around the back.
P.P.S If you're reading this Santa, I'm gonna get ya, I'm gonna get ya good!!!!