In the latest sign that the Christmas Party’s multi-century hold on the reindeers of power at the North Pole may be beginning to slip, the upstart Elves First organization is demanding that perennial polar president, Santa Claus, re-invest in his own constituents this holiday season, rather than spending 100% of the icy nation’s GDP on foreign aid – as per his annual habit.
“We have cobbles that need mending, canes that haven’t been re-candied in years, and I had to wait over an hour last week for my annual ear-tip cancer screening,” says the leader of the malt-right faction, Leif Bannon. “The time has come for our George Soros-funded leader to stop trying to be Santa ‘Cause’ for every single person on Earth, and start putting Arctic interests first.”
Despite having a 0% unemployment rate and enjoying government supplied housing, unlimited hot cocoa, and the envy and adulation of billions of children, in recent years a disturbing new trend has crept into elfin politics – one that has dared to openly state what once would have seemed heretical in this ancient home of epic generosity: why share the magic?
“Those little cheek-chappers can chew coal for all I care,” Santa said jovially, when asked for his opinion on the renegade political movement that has reared its woolly head in his remote nation. “I’d kick them out for being completely against the spirit of this place, but our constitution guarantees every elf a shelf here at the pole, no matter where they’re born.”
While he still enjoys a 96% approval rating amongst registered elves – and unassailable popularity with children worldwide – Santa admitted that having his fundamentally charitable approach to life and governance challenged, shakes him down to his “bowl full of jelly” belly.
“Kindness is our only export,” the elder statesman said, sighing as he looked out across the barren, frozen landscape of his polar nation. A momentary sadness crept across his rosy cheeks, as he considered the rise of a clutching, grabbing smallness in the world today. “Kindness and reindeer manure, that is. But that’s a shrinking market too.”
“Does it make sense to trade trillions of dollars of goods every year for stale cookies and room-temperature milk?” Santa asked, rhetorically, as the northern ice cap rumbled beneath us. “Of course not. But neither does thinking that 195 nations operating purely on behalf of their own short-term interests is a viable approach, especially on a small planet that is only getting smaller. Ho ho holy shit is that ever dumb.”
And with that, this increasingly rare of sights (an indiscriminately generous old white guy) flung open the gate of the reindeer corral we had been standing beside, and call’d them by name:
“Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer, and Vixen,
“On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Dunder and Blixen;”
And then, looking back towards a visiting reporter with meaning:
“To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
“Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”