Caught trying to keep Yuletide gay
by JSVnaked
Turns out, however, that the big man himself (Santa Claus) maintains a few party-pooper rules of his own. The clinically obese, semi-retired recluse uses many aliases including that of 'Jolly St. Nick' and reportedly has a belly capable of shaking "like a bowlful of jelly" during laughter. He may be laughing, but his clandestine activities are certainly no joke: skirting airport security; international travel without passport, transit documentation or valid personal identification of any kind; trespassing; property damage (limited mostly to residential neighborhood rooftops); break-and-entry; operation of flight vehicles without FAA clearance; and theft of family foodstuffs represent just a small portion of the alleged modus operandi.
Law enforcement and tax authorities have been unable to question the self-described bishop about his bizarre, annual late-night "business trips" which investigators say originate from a secret base strategically established at or near the North Pole. Being centered in the middle of the Arctic Ocean, the Claus crime empire openly and unabashedly evades all tax and customs collection authorities worldwide, while operating a plastics-heavy manufacturing facility in the heart of one of the planet's most vulnerable ecosystems.
Recently I had an opportunity to visit 'the workshop' as it is called by local elves [themselves suspected by Interpol of being either human-trafficking victims or unpaid child laborers], to further investigate this story.
Mrs. Claus welcomed me warmly but it quickly became evident that she wouldn't (or couldn't) be discussing any aspect of her husband's business affairs. She led me to an open waiting area on the facility's mezzanine level, told me to make myself comfortable and that one of Santa's media liaison officers would be informed of my arrival. Overall, she seemed a remarkably calm and satisfied woman - surprising, given her spouse's not-so-secret reputation of only coming once each year.
My parents had always told my sister and I that Santa Claus could see us throughout the year, even when we were sleeping, so he clearly knew of my preference for nudity and had no problem with it. Confidently I stripped naked in order to more comfortably endure a facility tour which, it was rumored, could take up to three steamy, un-air-conditioned hours. Repeated delays of unknown origin had kept me waiting more than 90 minutes when three particularly nervous elves silently approached me offering a laptop computer and cigarettes to apparently ease my wait.
They were correct: laptop means internet access, and internet access means porn!
It has always been my experience that pornography has an inexplicable way of making time fly. Eagerly logging on to a few of my favorite fora and tube sites, I reasoned that taking the edge off is best achieved by getting a little edge on!
No more than fifteen minutes into my masturbatory therapy, multiple alarm bells began to blare with multi-colored lights flashing in more ways than even I could manage. After what seemed like hours of ear-splitting WWII air raid warnings, there was a sudden, eerie silence. A calm before the storm? Soon a familiar sound -or rather voice- began repeating the same five words over and over again. I knew that voice... but how could Santa have come into its possession?
Echoing through the workshop at triple digit decibel levels was the unmistakable drone of Professor Hawking's old voice synthesizer: "open masturbation not permitted.... open masturbation not permitted... open masturbation....." A bit rude, I thought. Obviously reindeer games were not the sole form of amusement forbidden here in tinsel city.
Being caught openly masturbating in Santa's workshop was certainly a first for me, and with no opportunity to defend my actions or ability to appeal their decision, I was simply handed a red 3x5" card containing two gold-embossed words needing no further explanation:
NAUGHTY LIST
