Friday, July 29, 2005


I was a little late to work this morning because I got stuck behind Santa Claus on Riverside Drive. For some reason he was driving a mid-80s Toyota Corolla; I guess his sleigh must have been getting some work done on it.

Poor Santa. He wasn't going very fast, probably because calling "Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!" at a Toyota isn't as effective as, say, pushing one's foot against the accelerator. It probably didn't help that he was being menaced by an irritable man on a motor scooter, who kept shouting MOVE YOUR FRICKIN' ARSE, SANTA, OR GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY!

Note to all festive holiday mascots: if you're being overtaken by a 50cc Vmoto Milan JX50, THEN YOU'RE DRIVING TOO SLOW!

Now I sort of regret losing my temper with him. There's something that feels slightly blasphemous about shouting abuse at Santa. It's like pistol whipping the Easter Bunny.

You know, I still feel bad about that, even though it was many years ago and the fuzzy little bastard deserved it.


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