The Santa Who Stole Christmas

Finally! It’s Christmas morning, and you are so ready to open those presents, eat those cookies, and go right back to sleep while watching The Office reruns! Especially since you’ve been going to Stuyvesant for the past 1000 years. And failed that last science test. Like, not even Stuy failed but failed failed. But that doesn’t matter, because, for one glorious week, school is closed. 

“High school would be eAsY, they said. High school would be FuN, they said,” you mutter slogging down the stairs. But wait—there are no presents under the tree and no cookies by the radiator. (Because you don’t have a fireplace. Because you’re not rich. If you were, you wouldn’t even deal with stupid Stuyvesant, you’d be skiing in the Alps.) DUN DUN DUNNNNNN. 

“What’s going on?! Where are the presents?” you shout, outraged. 

“Maybe you were on Santa’s naughty list this year,” Mom says.

“I don’t care about the stupid NaUgHtY LiSt and the ChRiStMaS sPiRit! I just want presents! And cookies!” You hadn’t even done anything that naughty this year. You did rizz up that one guy’s girlfriend. Accidentally. And used ChatGPT for that one project. And copied your bestie’s homework one time…or two dozen. And released rats into the theater, but it was a funny prank! Nothing that warranted the removal of presents. And cookies. What kind of a monster would eat the cookies when they didn't leave presents? 

“Then go talk to Santa!” your mom explodes, tired. 

“FINE!” you shout, yanking on a parka. Santa wasn’t going to know what hit him. 

The North Pole, 3000 miles away

“Santa! It’s me, ya boy, open up! It’s FREEZING out here!” you screech, pounding on the door of Santa’s log cabin. 

“Of course it is! This is the North Pole, you rabid reindeer! Who stuck a candy cane up your—” The door opens, revealing Saint Nick himself, in all his suspenders and full white-bearded glory. 

“I thought Santa wasn’t supposed to curse,” you say, stone-faced. 

“I deliver presents to ungrateful children in less than 12 hours during terrible weather. I can’t even fit through the chimneys anymore—”

“Maybe someone should cut back on the cookies, joy-stealer.” 

“And don’t even get me started on the elf uprisings lately—” continued Santa, like he hadn’t been interrupted. 

“The problem is the employer, not the employees…” you mumble. 

“And now you’re here, so I think I’m allowed to swear,” Santa sighs. “What do you want, rodent?”

“I want my presents!”

“You’re on the naughty list this year. There’s nothing I can do about it!” 

“Naughty list! I’ve been a perfect angel this year, I swear!” you exclaim.

“Well, you did rizz up that one guy’s girlfriend,” Santa says, scratching his beard. 

“That was an accident! If I really did have rizz, why am I still single?!” 

“That is true. There’s not enough rizz in the world to unsingle you,” Santa laughs. 

“I can’t believe I’m getting roasted by some guy nobody believes in who’s never heard of Prime shipping.”

“You’re definitely not getting those presents now,” remarks Santa. “And what is this Prime shipping you speak of?”

“Can I at least have some replacement cookies then?” 

“Cookies are for good little children, and you are neither good nor little!” Santa booms. “Besides, it’s not like I can cough them back up or anything. They were delicious. Tell your mom I said thanks.” Well, he does kind of have a point. About the coughing them up part, not the good part. You glare at Santa as the door slams shut in your face. The audacity. 

“Fine then, I’ll make my own cookies. And I won’t share this time! Or ever!”