Chapter 1

This nicely screwy tale had been one of the most popular and highest voted Christmas stories at Storiesonline until for eBook legal reasons I had to remove this story back in 2012. Since I never got paid even a dime for the publication it's (long) past time that this story was returned to its rightful home.

This is maybe my best Christmas story about bad holiday parties ... and for some reason I write better humor when I'm in a bad mood. I'm actually not a big fan of Christmas (I mostly don't like the rush, fuss and bother) but I enjoy writing holiday stories for some reason. To make things weirder, some portions of the tale qualify for the 'True' tag.

Let me make this perfectly clear from the very start, I am not a big fan of Christmas. It's not one of my top ten favorite holidays, probably even falling below Arbor Day in my list of events to consider celebrating. Yes, I'm one serious Scrooge – Humbug!

In a word or two of defense for my surly curmudgeonly self, I like children just fine and have no epileptic bias against lots of flashing red and green lights. I do hate fruitcake – but who doesn't? I don't even have any particular animosity towards any of the religious sides of the season. I'm pretty much an agnostic but I've got no grudge against anything that gives someone else a bit of comfort in this weird mixed up world. My primary complaint against the holidays is largely against its number one spokesperson, Santa Claus. Good jolly old Kris Kringle can just go freeze to death up there at the North Pole, in my opinion.

The bearded old bastard after all did try to grope me as a child, stole several of my girlfriends, and oh yeah ... he killed my parents. No, really. Ok, sure ... so it wasn't really Good Saint Nick, but one of a series of alcoholic street bums and kiddie diddlers dressed up in their favorite fetish gear. Same thing though – they're all trouble, and best to be avoided.

In short, you could dress me up in a pinafore or little blue sailor suit, dip me in honey and toss me into a room full of pedophiles at a NAMBLA convention, before I'd willingly spend more than a minute in the company of another ass clown dressed up in a Santa suit for another dose of holiday mayhem.

Fool me once shame on you, fool me for the ninth or tenth time ... very shame on me!

I'd like to blame my screwed up hippy parents for making me into the crabby bastard that I am today, but it's not quite entirely all their fault. They tried to be cutting edge 'modern' and abhorred every superstition. They were violently atheistic even to the extent of banishing all mention of Christmas, and virtually every other holiday from our house. There were no Christmas trees and no gifts per se, unless you count the fact that my mom bought most of our clothes during the holiday bargain sales, creating an indirect holiday trickle down effect. New shoes and sock, meah ... so what. It's wasn't a bike or a neat toy.

They treated all of the other holidays of the year with pretty much equal distain:

• Easter – Crypto-Papist mind control

• Memorial Day/Veteran's Day – Bad! Glorifies warmongering and rewards baby killers

• Fourth of July – More jingoist twaddle re: "My Country Right or Wrong!"

• Halloween – More Crypto-Papist subversion of old pagan customs

• Thanksgiving – Glories the triumph of Puritan fascism and destruction of the Native Americans

You get the idea. Bat shit crazy hippies.

My parents were absolute ultra-leftist fruitcakes right up until the very moment that their 1972 VW Beetle was struck by a pickup truck driven by a drunk in a Santa suit, killing all three of them. It was actually the first and only useful thing my parents ever did – relieving the world of one fewer Santa Claus. I sometimes wonder just how screwed up I'd be if I'd lived with them for another eight years before college ... maybe Good Saint Nick did me a backwards favor after all.

I got to experience my next six Christmas's in a children's group home, until I emancipated myself right before I turned seventeen. It wasn't all that bad I guess, but the county didn't contribute much in the way of toys for the kids (we did get a lot of used clothes donations) and none of the three adults that lived with us twenty odd kids made much in the way of salary either, so we all made arts & crafts things for each other. Better than nothing I suppose, but that still wasn't a bike!

I never got my stupid bike until I bought a used Scwinn ten-speed for myself when I left the group home so I could get myself to work and my dumpy tiny little utility apartment!

Karma can be a real bitch. I wonder what the heck I did in a previous life to be tormented by a plague of Santa's that seemed to be single-mindedly determined to ruin my life!

The very next Christmas after my parent's death, and my first in the County Children's Group Home, I met my first surrogate Santa up close and personally. He was some street bum the County had hired out of a homeless shelter, and he smelled of cheap whisky and was so filled to the brim with holiday cheer he could barely even stand and he'd already pissed his own pants at least once. Apparently, deep in his cups, he also had a fondness for diddling kids and the stinking pervert kept trying to kiss us and feel up our asses while on his lap. Ick!

Santa wanted me to "feel for a present" down inside of his costume and kept grabbing at my crotch, but I was old enough to know what the score was, and got the hell away from him fast. A younger and more naïve kid named Bobby wasn't as lucky and got diddled in the bathroom before the councilors caught on to what was happening. Santa spent the rest of the holidays in the County Jail, and Bobby (who was already a fairly screwed up kid to begin with) got even weirder and ended up in the County Juvenile psychiatric ward before summertime. Well, at least we got no more visits at the home from any more Santa's!

The county group home did have a very encouraging attitude towards promoting self-reliance in their charges. They'd let you start to work part-time jobs on weekends once you were sixteen, and even on school nights once you turned seventeen, and I took full advantage ... and found that my cursed Christmas's followed me wherever I went. Worse, now demonic Santa surrogates were now ruining my love life too!

Denise was my first true love and we worked together at a Baskin-Robbins, my first real job. The pay was bad, but there aren't many places that will hire you even at crap wages at the age of sixteen. She was a bit older than I was, seventeen, and her dream dates tended to involve boys that had cars and pocket money to take her places. She did however find me 'sort of cute' and we had a bit of fun a few times when customers at the ice cream shop were few and far between. No, we never 'did it' together, but we liked each other and over about six months I did make it more or less to second base with her. You never forget fondling your first pair of tits!

Our franchise owner was a pretty cool, but wild sort of guy, who regularly kept a few six-packs of beer in one of the back fridges and didn't mind us doing some under-aged drinking. He drove a Porsche and always flashed a lot more money around than our little shop could have possibly generated in income. Rumor had it that he had a lot of mob connections, and once somebody put a bullet through the front window glass as some sort of warning to him. That bullet hole was still there in the glass years later long after the ice cream parlour had closed and became a washeteria. He was also a bit of a pussy hound, and while he mostly dated strippers, he wasn't above fishing in the company pond and nailing young poon, as I found out at our small company Christmas party that year.

I caught him screwing Denise in his office, mutually consentually probably, but while wearing a cheap Santa suit, albeit with the pants around his ankles while he fucked her. While it found it interesting and educational that Denise had absolutely no tan lines at all, I'd much rather have discovered this for myself, preferably hands-on ... but it was not to be. Denise later shrugged the whole thing off as no big deal, but our relationship was never quite the same, and she left to go work at a department store a few months later.

Now you would have thought that the odds of this sort of thing happening two years in a row would have been extremely unlikely at best, but you'd be dead wrong. The next Christmas, I was working for one of the big Six Flags amusement parks and had a semi-regular girlfriend named Astrid who cured my festering virginity earlier that summer. She was a cute little blonde foreign exchange student at my High School from Finland, but she spoke flawless English and was just about as Americanized as she could get ... but kept her very Scandinavian attitudes towards casual sex. Astrid and I were both shift managers at different restaurants in the park, and the park was still open for business every single day during the holiday season until after New Years, so we both stayed fairly busy.

I realized that not having a car was really cramping my relationship with Astrid, but I didn't realize just how much until our staff holiday party that year when I caught her on her knees servicing an upper level supervisor in a back room. Naturally he was dressed up as Santa too. She'd had a few beers, and I think about five shots (at least of Jack Daniels) but she didn't seem terribly apologetic when I opened the bathroom door and caught her. At the time, she just sort of shrug and didn't even mind much being watched, as her bosses boss grunted and thrusted inside of her, as she sat upon the bathroom sink with her sweater well above her exceptional but small tits and her skirt lying upon the floor as she spread her legs and widely wrapped her ankles around his bare ass. I received sort of a non-apology apology later but really she wasn't too terribly sorry for her mistake, and didn't understand why I was upset or jealous. It was only sex ... and sweetening up her senior boss for a manager promotion (one step below supervisor) when the park reopened in the spring ... She admitted that they'd been fucking for awhile, and she intended to keep doing so ... so that was pretty much the end of our relationship then.

She never got that promised promotion and quit the park when it became obvious that he was just out to get her easy ass and would never deliver on any of his promises. I say her at school still that spring occasionally and she ended up dating and later marrying a fairly nice jock at our school named Jeff who was a star on our Baseball team. He went Pro, and had a cup of coffee in the Majors before taking a scouting job for the Brewers. When I saw them at the last school reunion, she had put on nearly fifty pounds and I was very dubious that all (or even most) of their five children had been fathered by Jeff. Once a cheater always a cheater, I guess.

While off at my local City College, holidays were at least slightly improved in most ways. I was in an elite electrical-mechanical engineering program and could generally steer a wide berth away from any overly jolly fellows in red suits. Still, they seemed to taunt me everywhere I went, and at last during my junior year another of the demonic hell spawn intruded into my life and happiness and bagged my then semi-steady girlfriend Paula.

It was just after final exams and the dorm was pretty much a non-stop party zone for those of us who were staying on campus between semesters. I had been working on a robot for an engineering competition due in mid-January (it came in second out from nearly three hundred entries) and I admit that I had pretty much lost track of time. I realized to my dismay that I was more than a bit late for escorting Paula to an off-campus party being hosted by some friends of hers in the History Department. I ran to her dorm room but she was already gone, but I was able to find some directions for the location of the party.

I was extremely late by the time I arrived, and nearly everyone was much the worse for drink. On a scale of one to ten, History grads are at least an 8.5 on the scale of serious drinkers, outdone only by Philosophy and English Lit students (Geologists get an honorable mention though). There were a lot of folks there, but I didn't see Paula anywhere, and was about to just give up and leave when someone thought they had seen her with one of the Teaching Assistant (TA's) grad students outside in the back yard by the pool. They weren't there, but the glass on the shed where the pool supplies were kept was noticeably steamed up in the very chilly weather outside. Through the foggy glass Paula was clearly visible, and doing what she did best, riding up and down on her TA's cock.

Cuckolded again ... and the bastard just had to be wearing a Santa hat! They were both bare ass naked and I had to appreciate the sight of Paula's pleasantly large tits bouncing up and down rhythmically, while she rode him.

I knocked on the glass and in a mood of semi-deranged but eerily calm feigned cheerfulness I waved and smiled and made a hasty retreat home before they could get dressed. Paula at first just denied everything and claimed the incident never occurred. When that didn't work, she then modified her story a bit to maintain that they had kissed but I "misinterpreted" what I saw. Since Paula was a quite a screamer and very vocal when being fucked, this was admittedly hard to misunderstand ... especially the moment she was crying out 'Don't cum yet, I'm almost there!". Finally she skipped the lies entirely and just blamed me outright for being late to pick her up, so it was all my fault anyway. I told her to go to hell and take her problems to someone else who might give a damn.

I think she ended up marrying the TA but then got divorced not too long afterwards. I don't blame her, from my one brief look at his equipment, I was pretty sure that Paula's new lover was a distinct downgrade to what she had been getting. She must have thought so too, because I got a drunken "wanna make up?" phone call from her once at 3 a.m. right before graduation and I told her to piss off and I never heard from her again.

I graduated with a double-Master's in Engineering (electrical and mechanical), and spent the next eight years paying off my obscene student loans by working contract jobs doing assembly and manufacturing robotic design. Already, I had found my true calling in life and, since my field was notorious for being full of anti-social and eccentric engineers, my own particular seasonal dysfunctions didn't stand out from the crowd.

I spent my holidays either at work, working, or home watching a growing video collection of Christmas related horror movies, especially ones where knife wielding heroes tried to clear the streets of deranged hobo Santa's until the streets ran red and deeply with slaughtered yuletide Kris Kringle blood. Oh, if it were only so simple! I can also proudly say I failed to attend a single Holiday party of any of my employers, even if I was to be an honoree.

My pleasant years of mistletoe free social events came to an end when I accepted a job offer to become the Director of Engineering for a large and very prestigious robotic design firm. They specialized in constructing, assembly, and manufacturing industrial robots for extremely exacting clients wanting a custom built unique machine made to their exacting specifications.

The President of the company was a crazed Japanese-American named Norman "Noru" Takahashi who resented his Nikkei birth and upbringing more than words can describe, and tried to be even more Japanese than most natives. He hated his American first name, which he never ever used. Calling him 'Norman' was pretty much a firing offense. He subscribed to every scrap of Japanese style corporate management he ever heard even vaguely rumored about, and shoved as much samurai work ethic down our throats as he could manage. He demanded employees show up for calisthenics at 7 a.m. every morning, Nippon style until the worker's collectively threatened to unionize and then immediately strike. He even wrote a company song for us to sing, and was perpetually outraged that no one ever bothered to learn the words. We all just hummed rather loudly, or made up entirely new rude verses, such as:

"Now, Norman is the one that manages this crew.
He doesn't like it when we drink, fart, fight, smoke or screw.
But when we build our killer robotos each day,
Then what the fuck can Noru say?
It makes a fellow proud to be a worthless gaijin!"