I have a work colleague named Santa. She sent me an email joke, which was subsequently sent on to another friend. I always delete the original email information, but this was a scrabble type email, where you get a list of words, change one letter of the last word on the list and forward it on to someone else to do the same and rinse, repeat.
The someone else I sent it to then asked me:
Are you friends with Santa?
I thought I'd have a bit of fun and replied:
Oh yeah, he brings my kids presents every year.
She played along with:
How did that come to be?
Course, then the smart alec in me came out with:
Well you dress the kids nice, a cute outfit you may have or you buy one specially for the time, and you take them to the local shopping centre. When you get there, you argue with your eldest that she looks pretty and not to scrunch up her face when she smiles, and you tell your 3 year old that Santa is lovely and he'll bring Chrissy pressies if he smiles nice for the picture. You don't worry so much about the little ones, as they don't care and generally will sit with anyone for a photo, but now that they are around a year and a half, you just know the girl will freak out and the boy may drool on the jolly fat bloke.
Then you hope for a nice pic and you thank the photographer, pay them a ridiculous fee for the privilege of standing in a queue for an hour and a half for a crappy 4x6 photo.
A week or two later you wake up and there are presents under the tree. You didn't put them there, you know damn well your hubby had nothing to do with it, so you assume that this bloke in a red suit broke into your house around midnight the night before and left them there, after swilling down all of brandy and any biscuits that you may have left about. I have a feeling he feeds the carrots from my kitchen to his pet reindeers, but I don't have proof of that just yet.
Don't you know him too? What happens to you on Christmas morn? Receive a piece of coal?