My Girlfriend is Santa Claus & Together We Must Stop the Christmas Apocalypse Based on a True Story

Take notes, all you youthful male readers out there, for any romantic relationship will consist heavily of apologizing for shit never said, never done, and never even conjured within the sanctity of your own head. For the female mind is a scarred battlefield of imagined offenses and power plays. It matters not that Peter was kidnapped against his will by the Snow Witch with the carnivorous smile, or that he never actually got a chance to bury his face between her frosty pillows, or that he was terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought that she would decapitate him mid-coitus. No! None of that matters at all! The only thing that matters is that Santa had her feelings hurt! Peter, you monster! How dare you upset the glorious gift giver of Christmas?

Many a child makes the naughty list each year. Millions of shin-kickers, biters, candy thieves, desk vandals, and bathroom graffitiers have their names recorded in the book of naughtiness— like you Tomas Bouchard, and you Becca Miller.But very few ever make it to the ‘Made Santa Cry’ list. Why, if this disembodied narrator ever saw someone bring Santa to tears, I’d punch him right in the teabag.

So bravo, Peter. Bravo to you. Only you could be so dimwitted as to take a perfectly good relationship with Santa Claus herself and smash it like an 11,000 piece Lego set World Trade Center. But how does one undo such a massive cockup? At night Peter laid in bed and replayed that horrible moment again and again in his memory— her stoic face melted with sadness— wishing that he could take back what he said, and choose his words with a little more care.

Is there anything more depressing than a Christmas breakup? A Hanukkah house fire? A Kwanza drive-by shooting? A Ramadan tsunami? No! They all pale in comparison to the dreary, sleet covered, sunless winter alone, accompanied by Christmas songs. For December was the month of painful reflection and ‘War is Over’ was the salt in the wound. So this is Christmas— alone— another year over— and alone— what have you done— nothing— and war is never over, John Lenon! You wrote that song fifty years ago! Do you know how many wars were waged in that time, you naïve flower-power dunce!

So after a brief breakfast— to right the wrongs he may or may not have committed, but definitely felt guilty about— Peter went out and packed a sledge— choosing Rarirurero and whoever else was nearest at the time— Aiueo. His mission: to craft a gift for Santa out of… something. Anything. Peter didn’t know yet. So out they went, Peter and the body dysmorphic reindeer and one of many asshole reindeer bullies, out into the frosty air, dimly lit by a seal oil lantern that spewed out putrid clouds of seal smoke like a middle schooler who found a vape pen in a parking lot.

All your textbooks in school may tell you there are no trees in the North Pole. They may say there’s no soil, no fresh water, no sunlight for trees to grow— all true. But these texts have forgotten the existence of the gallium tree. Indigenous to the North Pole, these cone shaped trees are a glittering, mirror like petrified conifer. Not far from the workshop a whole forest of them grew— like a Christmas tree lot dipped in silver, reflecting the stars in the sky. The sledge sped off towards this glittery forest in the dark, zig-zagging left and right, circumnavigating each crevasse along the way.

Where tundra ended and forest began, he parked, unpacked some tools borrowed from the elfsmiths, and approached the strange mirror like tree. As he reached out and studied it, his reflection within the tree reached back and studied his touch.

“Can you hear me? You’re not a magic tree are you?”

Aiueo couldn’t stifle her laughter. When Peter turned round he saw the two reindeer had poofed themselves with Christmas magic into semi-humans. They stood upright, fluffy tails twitching and hooves scratching in the snow, brushing their luxuriant locks over their breasts.

“A magic tree?” Aiueo said. “What are you, a dumbass?”

“Yeah,” Peter said sarcastically. “There are magic reindeer, magic top hats, magic mouse girls, magic gingerbread man cookies, but no magic trees. Got it.”

“Yeeh!” Aiueo mockingly said. “Nu mew mew-mew nunu, mew-mew nu nu, mew-mew mew nu…”

“Are you copying me?” Peter asked.

“Are nu nu-nu-nu mew?” Aieuo said.

“You know, that’s really childish.”

“Nu mew, nu nu-nu mew-nu-nu.”

Sensing that this conversation was going nowhere, Peter turned away to resume his work. What he didn’t see was Aiueo, flustered and yanking her antlers in agonized frustration. Eyes clinched in furious self-loathing, she whispered to herself, “Why doesn’t he see how much I love him!” Perhaps, my topless reindeer friend, you would have better luck catching boyfriends with sweetness instead of sourness.

Peter believed he would harvest the necessary materials for Santa’s gift in a few minutes. However, the work was not as easy as he predicted. Although he wished to sever only the tiniest sprig from the branch— no larger than a twist of rosemary, it proved impenetrable to hacksaws, a rock hammer failed to chip a single scratch into it, and even a blowtorch cranked up to its fiercest blaze would not melt the indestructible substance. Peter cussed up a storm of holiday related profanities, bellowing out mighty roars of “fuuuuudge!” and breaking every single tool in his arsenal— the bolt cutters bent, the hacksaw crumbled, the crowbar shattered, until— in a crazed frenzy of pure rage— he assembled his gargantuan sniper rifle, loaded it, and blasted the branch at point blank range. That did the trick. The sprig of platinum pine needles broke off quite clean. The rifle was, after all, designed to crippletanks, ripping straight through their armored hulls and piercing engine blocks like they were marshmallows.It’s like Santa always said: if at first you don’t succeed, go absolutely crazy with a deadly weapon until things naturally work out.

Peter looked at the crystalline shard and wondered if he could craft it into a ring or a necklace. Rarirurero stood back and craned her neck to get a better look at what he was doing, far too timid to ask him. Peter held out the sprig for her to inspect, and she sniffed at it.

“It looks so pretty,” she said.

“You think this will make a good gift? Like a necklace or something?”

Rarirurero nodded.

“If you want a gift idea you should get salt lick,” Aiueo said. “Or alfalfa grass.”

“I don’t think Santa likes salt lick,” Peter said.

As Peter repacked the collection of broken tools he turned his back on the reindeer. Aiueo, sensing a brief window of opportunity, seized it and drove her hoof into Rarirurero’s back so hard the unsuspecting reindeer tumbled face first in the snow. He heard the instant fatality, and saw the poor reindeer lift her antlers from the frozen ground, her face beet red and caked with snow. The bully twirled a lock of hair around her finger as she looked up and gazed at the stars— the very picture of nonchalant.

“Did she just kick you?” Peter asked.

Rarirurero dusted some snow from her eyelashes and long tresses, but did not answer. It was as if she were going to say something, but tongue-tied with timidness she just continued brushing herself and looking flustered.

“Kick her back,” Peter said.

“What?” Aiueo awoke from her star gazing to be offended.

Rarirurero bit her lip and shook her head— antlers and hair flinging left and right.

“I can’t solve this problem for you. Now go kick her ass. You have my permission.”

Aiueo feigned outrage in the way only spoiled assholes could. Mouth agape as if lost for words, but then she said, “I’ll rip your antlers off if you touch me, you light-bulb nose freak.”

Aiueo lowered her head and pointed her antlers at Rarirurero, readied to charge head first and lock antlers in furious reindeer combat. Rarirurero threw her arms up defensively and whined a pathetic, panicked wail. Not only did she lack the will to fight, but she was also unable to flee from the oncoming storm of violence.