(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)
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)
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