Ere He Drove Out of Sight

Mrs. Claus again. Does she have any idea what night this is?!? No, I cannot pick up eggs on my way home. Do I look like a rabbit?

Thank goodness I have a second phone. Those elves can be mischievous, and surprisingly photogenic. I must remember to hide it in Rudolph’s stall before we head north. Mrs. Claus would jingle my bells if she scrolled through some of those merry messages.

We have continents ahead of us, and the satellites are so thick this year, we’ll have to stick to a lower orbit. These people sure love to keep an eye on one another. What kind of voyeuristic little monster wants a drone, with a high-definition camera as a standard feature? There is nothing nice about that, and I’m not sure naughty covers it.

Can I really handle this job any longer? There is only so much jelly in the bowl.

I feel more like an enabler every year. I’ve stopped reading the comments. Mostly, they consist of a grammatical dog’s breakfast and a bunch of nasty emojis. I used to be able to count on five stars in most cases: “Not only did he finish the cookies and milk, he left me a charming thank you note, and the children were thrilled when all of their toys turned out to include batteries. Eight tiny reindeer. Highly recommend.”

Now, I get long emails of complaint about the inadequacy of last year’s gifts, complete with disappointed unboxing videos. One small fiend had the temerity to suggest that my beard is fake. Another posted speculation about my gender that was not flattering. Mrs. Claus enjoys reading the worst of them aloud and cackling like a lunatic. We have been married for centuries. It feels like it.

Who asks a benevolent figure from folklore for bitcoin?

Fully functional, artificially intelligent "companionship"? A 3D printer that can produce "viable ammunition"? Trading cards and Bibles offered for sale by greedy politicians? Genuine professional wrestling attire that has been “worn in the squared circle,” signed and sealed in air tight packaging?

“I clearly asked for a PS5, Mr. Claus. This kind of sloppy customer service is not good for your ratings. Please work on these issues.” Who do these little punks think they are? What kind of petulant twit uses the word “issues”?!? The same kind that wants exotic supplements and a weighted blanket, I suppose.

Dancer looks tired. I know the feeling. I’ve just finished the only, decent bottle of wine I have seen in hours. Do these parents drink any more? Edibles and antidepressants galore, but not a drop of decent hooch since we left France. Who wants to vape? The only thing that should taste like cotton candy is cotton candy.

I told Mrs. Claus I think artificial intelligence sounds sinister, but she never has any time for my neurotic babbling. “Just deliver presents, dear. It’s their job to live with them.” Easy for her to say. My stocking has been hung by the chimney with care, empty as a promise to be good, since March.

They want everything to include AI this year: toasters, espresso machines, watches, glasses—you name it. Why would they want sophisticated technology to keep an eye on everything they see, all of the time? If I never had a moment’s privacy, I would go as mad as that elf who tried to get an autographed selfie of every influencer in Oregon.