Holiday Jokes

Updated on 6/17/03

Why is Santa Claus so Jolly?
Because he knows all of the naughty girls.

After Christmas vacation, an elementary school teacher was asking her students how they celebrated Christmas.

When she got to Sammy, whose father ran a local toy store, she said, "Sammy, since you're Jewish, I guess your family didn't celebrate Christmas."

Sammy replied, "Oh yes, we did. We all held hands and danced around the cash register singing, 'What A Friend We Have In Jesus.'"

I think Santa Claus is a woman....

I hate to be the one to defy sacred myth, but I believe he's a she. Think about it. Christmas is a big, organized, warm, fuzzy, nurturing social deal, and I have a tough time believing a guy could possibly pull it all off!

For starters, the vast majority of men don't even think about selecting gifts until Christmas Eve. It's as if they are all frozen in some kind of Ebenezerian Time Warp until 3 p.m. on Dec. 24th, when they -with amazing calm - call other errant men and plan for a last-minute shopping spree.

Once at the mall, they always seem surprised to find only Ronco products, socket wrench sets, and mood rings left on the shelves. (You might think this would send them into a fit of panic and guilt, but my husband tells me it's an enormous relief because it lessens the 11th hour decision-making burden.) On this count alone, I'm convinced Santa is a woman.

Surely, if he were a man, everyone in the universe would wake up Christmas morning to find a rotating musical Chia Pet under the tree, still in the bag. Another problem for a he-Santa would be getting there. First of all, there would be no reindeer because they would all be dead, gutted, and strapped on to the rear bumper of the sleigh amid wide-eyed, desperate claims that buck season had been extended. Blitzen's rack would already be on the way to the taxidermist. Even if the male Santa DID have reindeer, he'd still have transportation problems because he would inevitably get lost up there in the snow and clouds and then refuse to stop and ask for directions.

Add to this the fact that there would be unavoidable delays in the chimney, where the Bob Vila-like Santa would stop to inspect and repoint bricks in the flue. He would also need to check for carbon monoxide fumes in every gas fireplace, and get under every Christmas tree that is crooked to straighten it to a perfectly upright 90-degree angle.

Other reasons why Santa can't possibly be a man:
* Men can't pack a bag.
* Men would rather be dead than caught wearing red velvet.
* Men would feel their masculinity is threatened, having to be seen with all those elves.
* Men don't answer their mail.
* Men would refuse to allow their physique to be described even in jest as anything remotely resembling a "bowlful of jelly."
* Men aren't interested in stockings unless somebody's wearing them.
* Having to do the Ho Ho Ho thing would seriously inhibit their ability to pick up women.
* Finally, being responsible for Christmas would require a commitment.

I can buy the fact that other mythical holiday characters are men......... Father Time shows up once a year unshaven and looking ominous. Definite guy. Cupid flies around carrying weapons. Uncle Sam is a politician who likes to point fingers. Any one of these individuals could pass the testosterone screening test. But not St. Nick. Not a chance.

There is absolutely NO way Santa is female. Here's why: First, Christmas would be late every year. The line at the department store would never move because Santa would feel the need to 'bond' with every kid that sat on her lap. The elves would never get any toys made because they'd be too busy telling her, "No Santa, those red pants do not make your butt look fat." Also, Christmas comes at the end of the month but I have never heard the REAL Santa complain about cramps or feeling all bloaty.

What woman would be even caught dead in a chimney? Gosh, she might break a nail in there. And what about Santa's beard? I'm sure you'll agree that most women look significantly better without facial hair (unless they're total schnauzers).

If Santa was female, she sure wouldn't have white hair. She'd be down at the North Pole Super-X every other day buying a gallon of 'Clairol Brunette # whatever'. Plus, women don't smoke pipes. Also, the sleigh and the reindeer are not equipped with an automatic transmission, a cell phone or vanity mirrors. Not to mention, I don't think Mrs. Claus is a lesbian. I also find it hard to believe that a female Santa could whip a reindeer's ass to get it moving. It's a widely-known fact that coochie-coochie talk doesn't work with reindeer.

A female Santa would only bring junk like 'Easy Bake' ovens, Baby 'Puke 'n Crap', and worst of all - CLOTHES - to all the little boys in the world because those items aren't as threatening as the really cool toys like 'Johnny Thermo-nuclear Warhead' or 'Rock-em Sock-em Robots' or 'Creepy Crawlers'. And when you leave a plate of cookies out on the kitchen table on Christmas Eve, Santa judiciously takes a bite from each one to prove he was there. If Santa was a woman, the whole damn box of Snackwells would be devoured and there'd be a sea of empty Ben & Jerry's containers all over the kitchen floor. As far as that red velvet suit is concerned, Mrs Claus withheld sex until Santa agreed to wear it.

And if all that doesn't prove without a doubt that Santa is a guy, consider this verse from the poem: T'was The Night Before Christmas:

"He spoke not a word but went straight to his work..."

If Santa was female, that line would have read:

"She wouldn't shut up, so Christmas was postponed indefinitely..."

"Twas the night before Christmas, and God it was neat.
The kids were both gone, and my wife was in heat.
The doors were all bolted, the phone off the hook,
It was time for some nooky, by hook or by crook.

Momma in her teddy an I in the nude,
Had just hit the bedroom and reached for the lube.
When out on the lawn there arose such a cry,
That I lost my boner and momma went dry.

Up to the window I sprang like an elf,
Tore back the shade while she played with herself
The moon on the crest of the snowman we'd built,
Showed a broom up his ass, clean up to the hilt.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a rusty old sleigh and eight mangy reindeer.
With a fat little driver, half out of the sled,
A sock in his ear and a bra on his head.

Sure as I'm speaking, he was high as a kite,
And he yelled to his team, but it didn't sound right.
"Whoa shithead, whoa Asshole,whoa Stupid, whoa Putz
Either slow down this rig or I'll cut off your nuts.

"Look our for the lamp post, and don't hit the tree
Shaking the sleigh, cause I gotta go pee."
They cleared the old lamppost the tree got a rub,
just as Santa leaned out and threw up on my shrub.

And then from the roof we heard such a clatter,
As each little reindeer now emptied his bladder.
I was donning my jockeys, to cover my ass,
When down the chimney Santa came with a crash

. His suit was all smelly with perfume galore,
He looked like a bum and smelled like a whore.
"That was some brothel," he said with a smile,
"The reindeer are pooped, and I'll just stay awhile."

He walked into the kitchen for himself poured a drink,
Then whipped out his pecker and pissed in the sink.
I started to laugh, my wife smiled with glee,
The old boy was hung nearly down to his knee.

Back in the den, Santa reached in his sack,
But his toys were all gone, and some new thing were packed.
The first thing he found was a false pair of tits,
The next was a handgun with a penis that splits.

A box filled with condoms was Santa's next find,
And six pair of panties the edible kind.
A bra without nipples, a penis extension,
And several more things I shouldn't even mention.

A fuck ring, a G-string, and all types of oil,
And a dildo so long that it lay in a coil.
"This stuff ain't for kids, Mrs. Santa will shit,
so I'll leave 'em here and then I'll just split.

He filled every stocking and then took his leave,
with one tiny butt plug stuck under his sleeve.
He sprang to his sleigh, but his feet were like lead,
Thus he fell on his ass and broke wind instead.

In time he was seated, took reigns of his hitch,
Saying, "Take me home Rudolph. This night's been a bitch!"
The sleigh was near gone when we heard Santa shout,
The best thing about pussy is you can't wear it out!"

Santa Claus, like all pilots, gets regular visits from the Federal Aviation Administration, and it was shortly before Christmas when the FAA examiner arrived.

In preparation, Santa had the elves wash the sled and bathe all the reindeer. Santa got his logbook out and made sure all his paperwork was in order.

The examiner walked slowly around the sled. He checked the reindeer harnesses, the landing gear, and Rudolf's nose. He painstakingly reviewed Santa's weight and balance calculations for the sled's enormous payload.

Finally, they were ready for the checkride. Santa got in, fastened his seatbelt and shoulder harness, and checked the compass. Then the examiner hopped in carrying, to Santa's surprise, a shotgun.

"What's that for?" asked Santa incredulously.

The examiner winked and said, "I'm not supposed to tell you this, but you're gonna lose an engine on takeoff."

De Ebonics Crimmus Pome

Wuz de nite befo Crimmus;
An' all ower de hood;
ereybody wuz' sleepin';
Dey wuz sleepin' good.

We hunged up our stockings;
An hoped like de' heck;
That ol Sanna Clause;
Be bringin' our check.

All o'de fambily;
Wuz layin in de beds;
While Ripple and Thunderbird;
Dance tru' dey heads.
I passed out inna' flo;
Right nex to my Maw;
When I heard sech a fuss;
I thunk: "It mus be de law!!!"
I looked out thru de bars;
What covered my doe;
'spectin' de sheriff;
Wif a warrent fo sho.

And what did I see;
I said, "Lawd look at dat!!"
Ther' wuz a huge watermellon;
Pulled by giant warf rats!!

Now ober all de years;
Santa Clause, he be white;
But looks liken us bros;
Gets a black Sanna dis nite.

Faster dan a Po'lees car;
My home boy he came;
He whupped on dem warf rats;
An' called dem by name!
On Leroy, on 'Lonzo ;
And on Willie Lee;
On Saphire, on Chenequa;
Dey wuz a site to see!!

As he landed dat watta' mellon;
Out der in da skreet;
I knowed it was fo' sho';
Da damndest site I ebber did see.

He didn't go down no chimbley;
He picked da' lock on my doe;
An' I sez to myself;
"Shit!! He done dis befoe!!!"

He had dis big bag;
Full of prezents I 'xpect;
Wid Air Jordans and fake gold;
To wear roun' my neck.
But he left no good prezents;
Jus started stealing my shit;
Got my drugs, got my guns,
Even got my burglar's kit!!

Wit my stuff in de bag;
Out da window he flewed;
I woudda' tried to catched him;
But he stoled my 'nife too!!

He jumped on dat wadda' mellon;
An' whipped out a switch;
He wuz gone in a seccon';
Dat son of a bitch!!

Next year I be hopin':
Anutha Sanna we git;
Cuz' diz here Sanna Clause;
Jus' ain't werf a shit!!!

Santa was very cross. It was Christmas Eve and NOTHING was going right.

Mrs. Claus had burned all the cookies. The elves were complaining about not getting paid for the overtime they had while making the toys. The reindeer had been drinking all afternoon and were dead drunk. To make matters worse, they had taken the sleigh out for a spin earlier in the day and had crashed it into a tree.

Santa was furious. "I can't believe it! I've got to deliver millions of presents all over the world in just a few hours - all of my reindeer are drunk, the elves are on strike and I don't even have a Christmas tree! I sent that stupid Little Angel out HOURS ago to find a tree and he isn't even back yet! What am I going to do?"

Just then, the Little Angel opened the front door and stepped in from the snowy night, dragging a Christmas tree. He says "Yo, fat man! Where do you want me to stick the tree this year?"

And thus the tradition of angels atop the Christmas trees came to pass........

Barbie's Letter To Santa

Dear Santa,

Listen you fat little troll, I've been helping you out every year, playing at being the perfect Christmas Present, wearing skimpy bathing suits in frigid weather, and drowning in fake tea from one too many tea parties, and I hate to break it to ya Santa, but IT'S DEFINITELY PAY BACK TIME!

There had better be some changes around here this Christmas, or I'm gonna call for a nationwide meltdown (and trust me, you won't wanna be around to smell it). So, here's my holiday wish list for 1999. . .

1) A nice, comfy pair of sweat pants and a frumpy, oversized sweatshirt. I'm sick of looking like a hooker. How much smaller are these bathing suits gonna get? Do you have any idea what it feels like to have Nylon and Velcro up your butt?

2) Real underwear that can be pulled on and off. Preferably white. What bonehead at Mattel decided to cheap out and MOLD imitation underwear to my skin?!? It looks like cellulite!

3) A REAL man. Hey, maybe GI JOE. Hell, I'd take Tickle-Me-Elmo over that wimped out excuse for a boytoy Ken. And what's with that earring anyway? If I'm gonna have to suffer with him, at least make him (and me) anatomically correct.

4) Arms that actually bend, so I can push the aforementioned Ken-wimp away once he is anatomically correct.

5) Breast reduction surgery. I don't care whose arm you have to twist, just get it done.

6) A jog-bra. To wear until I get the surgery.

7) A new career. Pet doctor and school teacher just don't cut it. How about a systems analyst? Or better yet, a public relations senior account exec!

8) A new, more 90's persona. Maybe "PMS Barbie", complete with a mini container of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and a bag of chips; "Animal Rights Barbie", with my very own paint gun, fitted with a fake fur coat, bottle of spray on blood and handcuffs; or "Stop Smoking Barbie," sporting a Nicotrol patch and equipped with several packs of gum.

9) No more McDonald's endorsements. The grease is wrecking my vinyl.

10) Mattel stock options. It's been 37 years - I think I deserve it.

Okay Santa, that's it. Considering my valuable contribution to society, I don't think these requests are out of line. If you disagree, then you can find yourself a new bitch for next Christmas. It's just that simple.

Yours Truly,

Barbie

Ken's Letter To Santa

Dear Santa,

I understand that one of my colleagues has petitioned you for changes in her contract, specifically asking for anatomical and career changes. In addition, it is my understanding that disparaging remarks were made about me, my ability to please, and some of my fashion choices.

I would like to take this opportunity to inform you of some of issues concerning Ms. Barbie, and some of my own needs and desires. First of all, I, along with several other colleagues feel Barbie DOES NOT deserve preferential treatment, the bitch has everything.

I, along with Joe, Jem, Raggedy Ann & Andy, DO NOT have a dreamhouse, Corvette, evening gowns, and in some cases the ability to change our hair style. I personally have only 3 outfits which I am forced to mix and match at great length. My decision to accessorize my outfits with an earring was my decision and reflects my lifestyle choice. I too would like a change in my career.

Have you ever considered "Decorator Ken", "Beauty Salon Ken," or "Out Of Work Actor Ken"?

In addition, there are several other avenues which could be considered such as: "S & M Ken" , "Green Lantern Ken", "Circuit Ken", "Bear Ken," "MasterKen." These would more accurately reflect my desires and perhaps open up new markets. And as for Barbie needing bendable arms so she can "push me away", I need bendable knees so I can kick the bitch to the curb.

Bendable knees would also be helpful for me in other situations (we've talked about this issue before).

In closing, I would like to point out that any further concessions to the blond bimbo from hell will result in action be taken by myself and others.

And Barbie can forget about having Joe - he's mine, at least that's what he said last night.

Sincerely,

Ken

Santa: "So little girl, what would you like for Christmas?"
Girl: "I want a Barbie Doll and a G.I.Joe."
Santa: "Doesn't Barbie always come with Ken?"
Girl: No, she only fakes it with Ken."

A little kid sits on Santa's lap, and Santa says, "What would you like for Christmas?"

The kid says, "A fucking swingset."

Santa says, "You'll have to ask nicer than that if you want Santa to bring you presents. Let's try again. What else would you like?"

The kid says, "A fucking sandbox for the side yard."

Santa says, "That's no way to talk to Santa. One more time. What else would you like for Christmas?"

The boy thinks for a minute, and then he says, "I want a fucking trampoline in the front yard."

Santa lifts the boy off his lap and goes to talk to the kid's parents. He tells them what the kid said, and then says, "I know how to stop it. Don't get him anything for Christmas except dog doo. Put a pile of dog doo in the backyard where he wants the swingset, put another pile in the side yard where he wants the sandbox, and another pile in the front yard where he wants the trampoline. That should make him change his tune."

Christmas morning the kid goes downstairs to open his presents, and there aren't any. He runs out the back door, looks around, and comes back in. He runs out the side door, looks around, and comes back in. He runs out the front door, looks around, and comes back in, shaking his head.

His father says, "What's wrong, son?"

The kid says, "Santa brought me a fucking dog, but I can't find him."

I saw you across a crowded room. Among all the others that were there, The lights seemed to shine down on you alone. I knew then I had to have you for my own. Willingly, you came with me to my home. From the car, I carried through the door. Looking at you, I admire your body, your well shaped legs, and breasts. Slowly I remove what wraps, around your body so tightly, fitting you like a glove. Exposing your tender white skin. From your neck I remove your charms, and carry you off in my arms, to the warm water that awaits. The water cascades down your neck, flowing over your soft breasts then, making your legs glisten with wetness. Droplets of water cover your taut skin. My hands rub your body, ummmm running them through the beads of water. Making them trickle down off your body. I place my fingers inside you. You are warm and moist, so ready. I carry your still dripping body, to a laying place, so that I can put inside you what was well prepared to enter you before we even came through the door. As soon as I lay you down your legs spread open wide. You are ready now and so am I. I put a little in slowly at first, getting a feel for how much you can take in. I put in more, you take it willingly. In anticipation, faster and faster I put it in, pushing it in deeply as far as I can, until I can't put any more in, you are so tight. With your legs wrapped tightly, not wanting to release any of it, I make you so hot for a very long time, until your sweet juices escape from within. Then I taste you, with my tongue at first, your skin is so soft and tender. I taste more of you with my mouth, you are so hot and moist, you taste so good. Your juices coating my mouth, making me drool in anticipation of eating you more, with every taste. "Oh yes", I say to you,

I must say Grace "Thank God for Butterball turkey.... Amen"

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