Recession catches up to Mr. and Mrs. Claus

'How was your day, dear?" Mrs. Claus asked as her husband came in from work, hung his coat on the hook behind the door and headed straight for his easy chair by the fireplace in the den.

"Absolutely awful," he sighed.

"What went wrong?"

"Everything. We're running behind in production. The elves are restless, and I don't blame 'em. With the economy like it is, they're worried about being laid off, and they haven't had a raise in two years.

"Yet the volume of gift requests is running way above normal. And the things kids ask for these days!

"Filling orders used to be simple. Remember that wonderful wish list from that kid in Buffalo, the letter that received so much publicity? Some guy wrote a song about it."

Smiling, he hummed the words: "Bobby wants a pair of skates; Suzy wants a sled. Nellie wants a picture book, yellow blue and red ..."

"Kids today think dolls and sleds are yucky," he mused. "They want power rockets, motorized skateboards, hang-gliding gear, you name it.

"I used to love my work. I looked forward to sailing through the starry night on Christmas Eve, delivering gifts to grateful kids everywhere. It was so easy - just land the sleigh on the roof, drop down the chimney, leave the toys, gulp down the glass of milk, enjoy the plate of cookies, then up and away."

"Yes, too many cookies," muttered Mrs. Claus. "That's how you got that big, fat belly that shakes like a bowl full of jelly and a 270 cholesterol count that makes you a prime candidate for a heart attack."

No escape Claus

"Deliveries are a whole new ballgame today," Santa continued. "You climb down the chimney and whoa! They've got gas logs, and the damper is closed. You have to shimmy back out, slide down a rain gutter, trot around the house and leave the gifts on the porch.

"Half the time, you accidentally set off the burglar alarm. All the lights in the house come on. You make a mad dash for the sleigh and try to get away before the cops arrive and before the trigger-happy guy inside the house starts blasting away with his AK-47. It's a dangerous job, I can tell you that!"

"You know what, honey?" Santa said, "I've been thinking seriously about early retirement."

"Early retirement! Are you crazy?" Mrs. Claus cried. "We can hardly get by now."

"Well, we could just tighten our belts and cut corners," Santa suggested.

"I'm already cutting corners!" Mrs. Claus fumed. "Don't think I don't skimp and save. And I don't spend my days lounging on the couch, munching Cheetos, watching 'Married, With Children' on TV and reading Sarah Palin's new book.

"Three days a week I'm out there scratching around in the ice and snow gathering reindeer moss for that gluttonous pack of animals out there in the barn.

"And I'm no spendthrift, mind you! What few things I buy, I get at Walmart's Midnight Madness sales. I haven't had a new outfit in years. I've been wearing that ratty-looking Christmas suit with the white, fake fur trim almost as long as I can remember."

Rudolph's bloody nose

"I know, I know," soothed Santa, hoping to calm her. "Speaking of reindeer, I'm about ready to move Rudolph back into the ranks. Ever since I let him lead the reindeer that night, he's been acting like a prima donna, a real pain, I can tell you that! And the other reindeer still laugh and call him names behind his back. But if I demote him, it'll cause a bigger stink than when Harry Truman fired Gen. MacArthur for insubordination."

After a long silence, Santa said softly, "You know, if I were to retire, I'd sure miss the little children. They're the best part of this job. When they snuggle up on my lap and lift those innocent little faces to mine and confide their Christmas wishes to me so trustingly, it really warms the cockles of this old heart. Yes, I'd sure miss that."

At that point, the telephone rang. Mrs. Claus answered.

"Yes, I'll tell him," Santa heard her say. Hanging up the phone, Mrs. Claus said, "That was Joe, the Toy Shop foreman. Said he'd been by to check on the reindeer before turning in and it appears the other reindeer ganged up on Rudolph. He's down, with a bloody nose, a couple of broken antlers and possible internal injuries. Joe said you'd better call the vet right away."

"Oh me. Oh me," Santa moaned, holding his head in his hands. "Why on earth did I major in merchandising in college? I should have gotten a degree in environmental science. Or maybe journalism."

Then, turning to his wife, he said wearily, "Dear, would you mind looking up Dr. Sorefoot's number for me?"