Being one of Santa’s elf sucks. All year we elves help Santa and Mrs. Claus make presents for all the world’s children. Well most of them; the poor kids in third world countries don’t have the luxury of a fantasy life underpinned by rampant commercialism and consumer avarice.
Anyway, back to my job. It’s a bad deal, because elves are paid on delivery and that’s only once a year. We need to revisit our Enterprise Agreement, but it’s difficult getting proper union representation when you’re in a sweatshop.
Take last week. The conveyer belt broke down, the heating went on the fritz and the robotic arm went ballistic under the pressure. It put the all the Ken doll heads on the Barbie dolls’ bodies. This created another problem. Instead of just chucking the rubbish, Mrs. Claus came up with some crazy idea so we didn’t waste the components. Now we have to repackage all the dolls for the trans-gender market.
And what’s my reward? Bad pay! I get paid millions, which sounds good; but I can’t buy anything, because it’s monopoly money. That’s because one year the games were overproduced and we had all this leftover toy currency. Mrs. Claus (Cow!) decided not to be wasteful.
The work environment is a pain. It should be politically correct and accessible to all vertically challenged people. This isn’t the case. Sure, there’s an EEO policy, but it’s pinned at the top of the notice board and we elves can’t see it. And there are no chick elves. This brings gender imbalance to the workplace, which has ramifications for our capacity to develop sensitive relationships or an understanding of the whole male/female thing. Worst of all, the bottom line is there are no lady bits to look at. I may be an elf but I have needs.
Recreation facilities are a bummer. The workshop is smoke free so when I want a fag I have to go outside into a North Pole blizzard, which always puts the cigarette out. My mum told me smoking was bad for my health; she said it would stunt my growth. She was wrong about that, because at 4 foot 2 inches, I’m the tallest of my seventeen brothers. I do always have a cold from being outside next to the bin with the sign that reads “Smokers Please Extinguish Your Butts Here”. My poor butt’s already extinguished by the cold. Even my testicles have shrunk to the size of peas – well three of them of have.
The benefits in this job are rank. Take the cafeteria - Mrs. Claus makes Santa bring home all the uneaten cakes and biscuits left out for him on Christmas Eve. She uses these to stock the staff cafeteria shelves. We have to eat them all year. Do you have any idea how bad stale mince pies taste?
You’re getting a whole new understanding as to why those two never had any kids, hey? Personally, I think it has a lot to do with that reindeer herd. Far too chummy with that Rudolf character if you ask me. And I don’t care what anybody says, the red nose is alcohol related.
We used to have more elves at the workshop, but we downsized. I think some of the work was outsourced to elves in China, but the boss is pretty cagey about that. He’s nervous about the words “exploitation” and “Santa” being used in the same sentence. So we all have to keep this a BIG secret or he would be out of business before you can say Shang Dang Lao Ren) which in Chinese means "Christmas Old Man." Probably ‘cos no-one knows how to say “Big Fat Bugger” in Chinese. I tell you those Clauses are definitely the Patrick Stevedoring of the elf world.
To top it all off, they’ve been trying to implement some kind of ISO standard. Idiots! It’s a one-off operation. Who else is going to need to be ISO 345567 North-Pole-Workshop Quality Accredited? They even tried to get the Heart Foundation Tick of Approval. Let’s just say the diet didn’t hold up - nor did the sleigh – we had to reinforce the steel frame this year when it went in for the 15 zillion kilometer service.
So, festive people take a reality check. On Christmas morning, as you mess up your homes with wrapping paper, thanking each other for stuff that you secretly hate and are planning to put into a Salvos bin the first chance you get; just remember that I have to live my crappy life so you can indulge in food, drink and credit card debt.