“Idiots! Morons! All of them! What the hell was I thinking? Elves and Angels? I should’ve just out-sourced it all to China and been done with it! China and DHL! Then just move on down to St. Bart’s and stay blottoed on cheap rum twenty-four-seven! And reindeer??? The stupid horny bastards! I can’t even remember the last time Mrs. Clause addressed MY needs, but you don’t see me grabbing that little minx Tiffany and…”

But just as he was really hitting his stride, an overweight elf with a ruddy beard came sprinting to his side, panting.

“Santa! Remember last year when we had that Beanie Baby debacle? Well you’ll never guess what happened. That same group of elves who insisted on making the those stupid little animal dolls, well, do you know what they’ve been doing for the past six months? You won’t believe it. They’ve been making Lite Brites! No one has asked for a Lite Brite since 1989!”

Santa stood, almost at attention, his red face slowly turning mauve, his fists clenched so hard his nails were drawing blood from his palms, mouthing obscenities to himself. The fat little elf carried on, oblivious. “We have thousands of Lite Brites now and nothing to do with them. So here’s what I’m thinking: we take the little colored pieces that you plug into the board, and we use them as the insides of kaleidoscopes. All we have to do is take our old telescopes, and..”

“ARE YOU RETARDED?????????” screamed Santa, spittle flying into his beard and dewing up his whiskers. “KALEIDOFUCKINGSCOPES!?!”

“OK, OK,” said the elf, his voice trembling. I have another plan. We could use them to make interesting new weapons for this year’s crop of Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers.”

“Oh, well yes,” replied Santa calmly. “That would work perfectly. Get right on that.”

“See? I knew everything would work out. All it takes is cheer and a little Christmas Spirit and..”

“BUT FIRST TELL ME WHY IN THE HELL DO WE HAVE MIGHTY MORPHIN’ POWER RANGERS??”

The elf jumped back startled as St. Nick, not at his jolliest, continued his tirade.

“Why don’t you just go back to making blasted JACKS?? Or MARBLES?? SIX MONTHS?? They were supposed to be making Nintendo Wii! How did no one notice this? LITE BRITE? Get away from me!” yelled Santa, unaware that the elf had already run for cover.

“And I swear if ONE MORE of you demented little idiots tries to ask me a SINGLE question…”

Just then he felt a tiny little tugging on the edge of his robe, and there, at his feet, was Susie, the littlest Angel of all. Sweet little Susie. Always positive, always kind, and always willing to do anything that Santa asked. She looked up with big round eyes at Santa’s clenched jaw, red face, and the y-shaped vein pulsing in his forehead at an alarming rate.

Susie, in her innocence, failed to recognize these signs of explosive rage, and reaching down she grasped with her tiny hands the top of a Christmas tree she had been dragging over to him.

“Santa?” She asked, holding the top of the tree aloft for him to see, “What should I do wif dis?”

* * * * *

And that’s how the angel got on top of the Christmas tree.

* * * * *

Then my father laughs. My brother and I laugh. My mother sighs and tops off her Baileys. When she goes into the kitchen for more ice I switch the Angel on the top of our tree, restoring my great grandmother’s plastic champagne glass Angel, the tiniest Angel of all, to her rightful place. Keeping that Christmas tree right where Santa told her to shove it all those years ago.

Kevin Petrie doesn’t blame any of his various twisted sensibilities on his father, though he probably should.  He prefers to blame them on his brother..

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