A Day In The Life Of Our Elf On The Shelf

Until a couple weeks ago I had no damn clue what an Elf on a Shelf even was.

Once I found out I figured, holy-leverage-over-the-kids’-awful-behavior-patterns-recently, it’s time for me to partake!

So, I ran out, bought the little shelf-bastard, and made it known “kids…Santa’s watching!!”

Then I kinda gave it no thought. Until a day ago when I noticed the little bastard wasn’t there anymore.

Instead, there was a note that read, “I can’t take it anymore…I…I just can’t!! Merry Christmas sickos!”

Scratching my head and trying to put the puzzle pieces together I noticed the dog chewing a tiny little book.

I immediately ran over and yelled, “DROP!!!”

Picking-up the drool-drenched book I immediately began to flip through it and quickly realized it was the Elf on the Shelf’s one day diary of his time in our house. In fact, he didn’t even make it a full day.

Here’s how it read:

Day 1. 5:13 a.m.

Dear Santa…did I really just see what I thought I saw. The dad just came downstairs, buck-naked, made a cup of coffee, got on the computer to announce he was going to go for a run then walked by me expelling some of the most horrific air ever!

Where are the happy children?

Day 1. 6:42 a.m.

“Drop, drop…DROP me damn it!!! He said ‘DROP!!’ Do what your master says and drop me!!!” That’s what I would have yelled at the dog if we were allowed to talk.

I’M NOT A PUPPET you stupid dog…..I’m an extension of Santa damn it!!!

Day 1 8:00 a.m.

OK, the boy’s gone to school and it’s just me and the daughter.

Day 1 8:11 a.m.

Elf on the Shelf does not get touched or dressed up for a tea party with Barbie!!!! Didn’t these rat-bastards read the book about me?!!! OK…sorry..I should not have spoken that way. I’m sorry Santa.

Day 1 10:42 a.m.

Awwww…the daughter has made me her “BFF.” She’s such a sweetie. Love little girls at this age.

Day 1 10:58 a.m.

I’m going to throw-up. Apparently the daughter picks random toy “best friends” to join her when going “boom boom” on the toilet.

How can something so tiny and innocent create smells so horrific?!!!?

Day 1 12:02 p.m.

Second kid’s gone to school. The two adults are working in their separate at-home offices. Dog is asleep. I’m so….so very exhausted.

This job seemed so much more glorious on the commercials and in the brochures.

Day 1 1:46 p.m.

Hey, very cool. Right on! The husband seems to be giving me a tour of the house! I shouldn’t have complained so quickly!

Day 1 1:48 p.m.

Hey, here’s the bedroom. Nice…they have a small, but pretty cool bedroom! I like it.

Day 1 1:49 p.m.

Wait!!! Wait!!! No!!!

The husband just told the wife, “hey, let’s see what Santa thinks of an afternoon quicky!”

Why are they doing this with me on the pillow next to them? Why…WHY!!!?

Day 1 1:53 p.m.

OK, that was sad. Really? Four minutes? Santa, I know what this guy wants for Christmas.

Day 1 2:01 p.m.

Do I look like a post-sex teddy bear to snuggle with? Oh you bad-breathed, bearded sicko…I want my mommy.

Day 1 2:21 p.m.

He finally woke up to shower and left me here on the bed and guess what? Yeah…the cat’s cleaning me like I’m some damn kitten.

FUCK YOU SANTA…FUCK YOU!!!

Day 1 2:34 p.m.

I feel so dirty. All I want to do it strip naked and cry in a warm shower.

Day 1 3:11 p.m.

I think I passed out for a while. But now, I’m back on my shelf.

That was some horrific dream I just had.

Day 1 3:13 p.m.

Where in the hell is my left leg and why can’t I see out of my right eye? It wasn’t a dream was it!!! Oh my dear lord the dog is chewing on my detached leg. I think I’m going to be sick…

Day 1 4:20 p.m.

Hey, quick question.

What is a bowl and why would the husband be asking the wife if she thinks “the elf on the shelf could possibly work as a make-shift bowl?”

Day 1 4:21 p.m.

Just Googled “bowl” on the elf iPhone. I’m fucking outta here!!!!

____________________________________________

And that’s it. That was all he wrote.

We’ll miss that little bastard. He was fun while we had him.

And hey, if you make it to the pole, tell the bearded fat man I want an iPhone.

Come on…I’ve been good this year…hook a brother up!!

Rock on Mr. Elf On The Shelf. We’ll always have your leg to remember you by.



A Letter On Bondage To My Son's Future Wife

Dear Grayson’s Future Wife:

I’d like to start this rambling batch of mess off with a big “I’m sorry!!”

Actually, I don’t really know why I’m apologizing. Your husband’s the one that really screwed it all up for you!

Let me start from the beginning.

It was a Fall day.

Grayson’s mother-dearest was working from home and it was a holiday which means your fella and his sister, were home taking full advantage of unsupervised hell-raising.

Much quietness fell upon the house.

This was followed by loud banging, crashing….and yes, crying.

Your man’s mom ran down the stairs to find her daughter wrapped in clear masking tape around her ankles, wrists, and waist.

Words flew. An understanding was reached. In short – no more bondage activities were to “EVER” take place again.

An hour passes and again the wife questions the quietness of the house.

Scared out of her mind to go in search of her offspring, she continues to work with a keen-ear to the sky.

Moments later there comes a predicted slam to a wall, followed by the horrific screaming of the boy.

Leaping from her chair she runs towards the sounds of death only to find your dear husband bound by his ankles and wrists with masking tape. His head was resting uncomfortably against the wall.

“I tried to leap the first step mom but I missed and my head slammed into the wall,” was what the dear boy muttered to the wife.

Ten minutes later she managed to finish un-wrapping your husband from his sadistic bondage get-up before calling me.

I immediately suggested she take him to the ER just to make damn sure his claimed “fuzzy eye-sight and muffled hearing” were just an effort to instigate the wrath of our parenthood punishment on the daughter for wrapping the boy up.

After sitting in the ER for an hour your husband’s mother was met with a doctor laughing his ass off as he read the chart detailing why his next “patient” was sitting before him still chaffed from where the tape was ripped off his skin.

The day ended with Grayson properly scared out of his mind and assuring us repeatedly that he’d “never tie anyone up again for the rest of his life!”

So this is why I write to you today.

This is why your dear husband has not and will probably never come home with silk wrist and ankle ties from your favorite naughty store.

This is why your bed posts will remain unscathed from crazy feel-good games.

But hey, he does enjoy getting tickled, warm chocolate milk, and announcing to the entire room when he’s gotta go “boom boom.” So, there’s that!

Better luck in your next lifetime.

Love,

Grayson’s Dad



Making Family Memories With A Dying Fake Santa

We kind of have this sporadic family tradition of going and cutting down our own Christmas tree from a Christmas tree farm.

Last year we were only a couple weeks from Christmas and not in the mood to do anything other than ask some poor schmuck at Home Depot to strap an overpriced dying tree to the roof of my car for a $0 tip because I suck at carrying cash around.

This year…the wife wanted to drive an hour each way to a farm that also had tractor rides, donuts, crafts, cider, and a dude in overalls with three teeth who spoke a language the cast of Deliverance would even have a hard time understanding.

*A quick side note: Fact - The wife loves to do things in the name of “making family memories” that I can clearly identify as “situations that will suck, create unnecessary whining amongst the little bastards, and eventually fuel me to blow my top in an effort to reign-in a situation completely and totally out of control.”

So we pile our happy little family into the car. It’s snowing like crazy outside as we head to this lovely sprawling tree farm located just a smidge to the north, northwest of bum-fuck.

Ten minutes into the ride the kids are screaming over the backseat middle armrest.

Three minutes later the daughter’s “bored.”

Nine minutes, 12 seconds later the boy’s stomach “hurts a little I think, but I’m not really sure…maybe if I fart it’ll help.”

Twenty seconds and one fart later the girl is crying because “Grayson farted on me and it stinks!”

Two minutes later the girl is half out of her seatbelt, pulling her snow-pants and boots off while whining because “life is too hard!!”

Five minutes later the car is pulled over to the side of the road as I’m being a Billy-Bad-Ass and laying the law down while I use my peripherals to make sure 18-wheeler trucks barreling down the Interstate aren’t about to turn us into a News at 5 with Jack Sherwoodstrassenford reporter-guy sob story.

It kinda continues this way till we get there. Ahhhh the memories.

Upon arrival we gear-up into our snow-garb. I grab a saw to begin a really shitty attempt at being a man in front of the family.

The kids throw snowballs at everything except the scary guy in overalls who speaks scary-farm-guy-tongue.

I cut down an overpriced tree with huge gaps in it that the wife really wanted because “it has a special yellow $30 tag on it,” and I spend 10 minutes strapping it to my car knowing we have a horrific hour-long interstate ride left to go home.

We then head into the “farmhouse” to get our free donut and apple cider.

This is when the Fake Santa comes into play.

We round the corner and there in all his glory is Santa! The kids start getting shy and whisper back-and-forth what they’re going to tell Fake Santa they want.

It’s the mecca of all family Christmas tree chopping down memory making events! Fake Santa’s in the house!!!

But as we approach, the wife and I begin to notice something’s a bit off with this particular Fake Santa.

He appears to be a demented, stroked-out, half-dead, redneck Fake Santa who’s “Elf” is literally texting her ass-off while throwing candy canes at anything under 4.5 feet tall and wishing them a Merry Christmas.

As my son half-sits on Fake Santa’s knee with a frightened look on his face and pondering his inner-toy desires, the old-man chomps his loose dentures while mumbling and looking off into space.

“I would like a Razor Scooter for Christmas please Santa,” was what the boy tries telling Fake Santa. But every time he started, Fake Santa says “What?!”

Like an old married couple sitting over a Grand Slam breakfast at IHOP struggling to hear what the other is saying, Fake Santa and the boy talk over each other, getting louder and louder by the second till Grayson stands and just says, “oh I’ll just write you a letter!!”

The texting Elf chucks a candy-cane at the boy’s chest and announces, “Merry Christmas. Next!”

Now there’s no way in hell the girl’s going anywhere near Fake Santa. But in an effort to entice her, Fake Santa manages to mumble, “you wanna come ring my bells little girl?” as he jingles his reindeer bells mere inches from his crotch.

“Happy Holidays Santa,” I announce as I whisk my family away from this horrific scene.

“Daddy? Was that Santa real?” the boy immediately asks as we walk away.

“No buddy. That was a Fake Santa. Sometimes businesses will hire fake Santas just to give a festive feeling to shoppers. And that one was a really bad fake Santa,” I said.

“Yeah. The other one at Marshall Fields downtown was much livelier than this one.”

“That’s right Grayson. This fake Santa’s probably going to die before we even get to the car. But he gave it a good shot didn’t he?”

“Why were his teeth falling out of his face?”

“Hey! Who wants more hot chocolate?!” I ask trying to change the subject.

Later on the car ride home, the wife gave me a whispered tongue lashing for revealing the imminent death of Fake Santa to the children. And in the back seat our little angels were sleeping.

A Christmas memory had been made.