Santa’s Administrative Hell

Written in the style of the comedian, banjo player, producer and writer, Steve Martin.

You know, people always ask, “Santa, how do you do it?” And I tell them, “It’s the logistics.”           

Specifically, the elf logistics. My entire workforce is composed of Boston Terriers. And let me say, they are obstinate. They are also, objectively, the cutest workers I have ever employed, which is a problem because if they flatten a thousand rubber ducks, I just have to ruffle their little ears and write off the inventory.

Take Throckmorton, for instance. Throckmorton’s specialization is quality control on wooden trains, but his personal working style involves inspecting each locomotive by lying directly on top of it, which technically tests the structural integrity, but really just slows down the production line by ninety-four percent. And when I try to talk to him, he just stares at me with those giant, wet, black eyes—the universal Boston sign for I understand nothing but still deserve a biscuit.

Then there’s Esmeralda, our Head of Wrapping. She’s technically very fast. Too fast. She doesn't wrap gifts; she attacks them. It's a flurry of paper and teeth, and when she’s done, the package is beautiful, but it looks like it just lost a knife fight. And she does this little back-snort of satisfaction. I have to stand there and pretend I’m not worried about the safety standards. If we miss the December 24th deadline, it won't be because the naughty/nice list was wrong; it'll be because Percival tried to eat the conveyor belt. It's an administrative hellscape, but they do look sharp in those little green and red hats.

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