A Christmas Eve story

Deck the halls with doggerel

Two months before Christmas, Santa took stock. His breathing was wheezy. His frock? It was taut. With the fear of the guilty, he stepped on the scale, and low sank his heart when the needle read: “Whale.”

Now who can blame Santa for the growth of his girth? It’s we who leave platters of cookies—and worse! There’s eggnog, hot chocolate and milk that’s not skim. No wonder there’s only room in the old sleigh for him!

Now, the source of his body issues really begins after the workshop’s new insurance finally kicked in. His regular doctor wasn’t an accepted provider, so Santa saw a new guy, a North Pole outsider.

“Mr. Claus,” the man said in nothing flat, “You’re rotund, tubby, obese and you’re fat. No one else will tell you you’re overly fed, but I say shape up or you’ll keel over dead.”

So, Santa resolved it was time to fly right, and he pulled out the cookbooks and started to write. He made a great list of good-for-you eats, and locked up the cocoa and marshmallow treats.

He blew off the dust on his key to the gym, and hired a dietitian to help him get slim. He did sit-ups and push-ups and leg-lifts and crunches, and he stayed far away from his usual munches.

But Santa’s unusual, he’s not like me and you. Where we’d lose 5 pounds, he actually gained 2. He huffed and he puffed and his muscles grew sore, but the elves kept telling him he had to do more.

Now Blitzen and Vixen and Cupid and Comet are many years older than Rudy the Rocket. They take copious amounts of glucosamine and can’t help but groan when Santa weighs 319.

“What I need is a trainer to make me perspire. Someone who’ll prod me and also inspire. I’ll summon Tom Cotton, he’s so lean and mean, he’ll get me in shape before Christmas Eve.”

“I’ll help you out, Santa,” the senator said. “But time’s running out, so let’s call this Code Red. Go run 10 miles, then hop on the bike. Go near the fridge and your head’s on a pike.”

“Thank you,” said Santa, “but that sounds sorta dire. Surely I can lose weight and not expire. I’d call on John Boozman but he’s a bit large. I’m not sure he’s the person I should put in charge.”

So the Rolodex spun, and the card it stopped on, read: Governor, Arkansas, Asa Hutchinson. “Now here is a man whose manner is soothing. Maybe my diet will be chocolate pudding!”

“Listen,” said Asa, “you jolly old fellow, You’ve let them brand you as a bowl full of Jell-O. Create a big task force, that’s my advice. Have it rename you, then stay off thin ice.”

Now Santa was desperate, he knew that old sleigh might fly apart over Texarkana one day. Though as breakdowns go, Arkansas would be great! He’d feel right at home in such an obese state.

A turn-around expert, that’s what he needed. Someone who’d keep going even when defeated. Why, a man who one day might beat Alabama. Who else but Razorbacks Coach Bret Bielema.

But the Hogs ball coach very quickly deferred. “I’m going bowling, it’s the final last word. And anyway, Santa, you’re on the wrong track. Have you seen Tretola? I like ’em like that!

But Santa, the rumor—is you’re 329. Why don’t you try out for the offensive line?” Santa was cornered, there was no place to go. Weight Watchers won’t deliver to the North Pole.

So late in the evening, in his darkest hour, Santa caved in and called the Trump Tower. The voice on the end of the phone line was harsh. “You’re a fatty, you annoy me, you’re weak and a farce.”

But who better than me to be Christmas’ savior? I’ll reserve you a spot on the next Biggest Loser. Now drop and give me 20, that’s an executive order. And you better have a visa when you cross the border.”

Then from the workshop came an elf Santa adores. “We’ve added two trailers because of Star Wars. And, Santa, the reindeer all have new shoes, And your sleigh’s got new braces with titanium screws.

Bob Baffert came by to train Dancer and Prancer. Point and say ‘glue,’ he says, to make them fly faster. You can use a firm hand on the reinforced rudder, Now, there’s no need for you to skimp on the butter.”

So the day before Christmas the agenda was set, Would he eat our cookies and brownies?—You bet! He will climb into the sleigh, and it will surely take flight,

and you’ll hear Santa say: “Merry Christmas dear readers! Have a good night!”