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A woman was becoming greatly distressed. Her husband had lost all interest in sex and all the various doctors and specialists they had seen could give no reason.

In desperation she wrote to Santa Claus asking for help. He responded by giving her special sex pills. He told her that if she put one pill in her husbands dinner then they would have a night of fantastic sex. He also warned her never to use more than one.

The woman was skeptical but decided to give it a try and, by god, it worked! The woman was so thrilled she used one pill a day for an entire month.

One day she thought, “Well all this sex has been great, but what would happen if I gave him all the pills at once…” So, completely forgetting Santa’s warning she slipped all the remaining pills in her husband’s dinner.

Several months later Santa decided to check up on the woman and see how his gift had helped her. A young boy answered the phone and Santa asked him how his mother was enjoying the gift. The little boy said, “So you’re the one who sent the pills… well, Mommy’s dead, sister’s pregnant, my ass hurts, and Daddy’s up in the attic going “Here kitty, kitty!”

Keep that reindeer out of the house! It’s full of fleas!
You’d better stay out of the house, Rudolph – it’s full of fleas.

There are approximately two billion children (persons under 18) in the world. However, since Santa does not visit children of Muslim, Hindu, Jewish or Buddhists except maybe in Japan) religions, this reduces the work load for Christmas night to 15% of the total, or 378 million (according to the population reference bureau).

At an average (census) rate of 3.5 children per household, that comes to 108 million homes, presuming there is at least one good child in each.

Santa has about 31 hours of Christmas to works with, thanks the different time zones and the rotation of the Earth, assuming east to west travel (which seems logical). This works out to 967.7 visits per second.
This is to say that for each Christian household with a good child, Santa has around 1/1000th of a second to park the sleigh, hop out, jump down the chimney, fill the stocking, distribute the remaining presents under the tree, eat whatever snacks have been left for him, get back up the chimney, jump into the sleigh and get onto the next house. Assuming that each of these 108 million stops is evenly distributed around the Earth (which, of course, we know to be false, but will accept for the purposes of our calculations), we are now talking about 0.78 miles per household; a total trip of 75.5 million miles, not counting bathroom stops or breaks. This means that Santa’s sleigh is moving at 650 miles per second – 3,000 times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison, the fastest man made vehicle, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a poky 27.4 miles per second, and a conventional reindeer can
run (at best) 15 miles per hour (0.25 miles per second). The payload of the sleigh adds another interesting element.

Assuming that each child gets nothing more than a medium sized LEGO® set (two pounds), the sleigh is carrying over 500 thousand tons, not counting Santa himself. On land, a conventional reindeer can pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting that the “flying”
reindeer can pull 10 times the normal amount, the job cannot be done with eight or even nine of them – Santa would need 360,000 of them. This increases the payload, not counting the weight of the sleigh, another 54,000 tons, or roughly seven times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth (the ship, not the Monarch).

600,000 tons traveling at 650 miles per second creates enormous air resistance – this would heat up the reindeer in the same fashion as a spacecraft reentering the Earth’s atmosphere.

The lead pair of reindeer would absorb 14.3
quintillion joules of energy per second each. In short, they would burst into flames almost instantaneously, exposing the reindeer behind them and creating a deafening sonic booms in their wake. The entire reindeer team would be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second, or right about the time Santa reached the fifth house on his trip. Not that it matters, however, since Santa, as a result of accelerating from a dead stop to 650 mile per second in 0.001 seconds, would be subjected to acceleration forces of 17,000 g’s. A 250 pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be pinned to the back of the sleigh by 4,315,015 pounds of force, instantly crushing his bones and organs and reducing him to a quivering blob of pink goo. Therefore, if Santa did exist, he’s dead now. Merry Christmas.

Q: What would you get if you crossed one of Santa’s helpers with the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll?

A: Elfis Presley!

Day 1
Dear Emile,
Thanks for da bird in the Pear tree. I fixed it las night with dirty rice an’ it was delicious. I doan tink the Pear tree would grow in de swamp, so I swapped it for a Satsuma.

Day 2
Dear Emile,
Your letter said you sent 2 turtle dove, but all I got was 2 scrawny pigeon. Anyway, I mixed them with andouille and made some gumbo out of dem.

Day 3
Dear Emile,
Why doan you sen me some crawfish? I’m tired of eating dem darned bird. I gave two of those prissy French chicken to Mrs. Fontenot over at Grand Chenier, and fed the tird one to my dog, Phideaux. Mrs. Fontenot needed some sparring partners for her fighting rooster.

Day 4
Dear Emile,
Mon Dieux! I tole you no more of dem bird. Deez four, what you call “calling bird” wuz so noisy you could hear dem all da’ way to Lafayette. I used they necks for my crab traps, and fed the rest of dem to the gators.

Day 5
Dear Emile,
You finally sent something useful. I liked dem golden rings, me. I hocked dem at da’ pawn shop in Sulphur and got enough money to fix the shaft on my shrimp boat, and to buy a round for da boys at the Raisin’ Cane Lounge. Merci Beaucoup!

Day 6
Dear Emile,
Couchon! Back to da birds, you coonass turkey! Poor egg sucking Phideaux is scared to death ah dem six goose. He try to eat they eggs and they pecked the heck out ah his snout. Dem goose are damm good at eating cockroach around da’ house, though. I may stuff one ah dem goose with erster dressing to serve him on Christmas Day.

Day 7
Dear Emile,
I’m gonna wring your fool neck next time I see you. Ole Boudreaux, da mailman, is ready to kill you, too. The crap from all dem bird is stinkin up his mailboat. He afraid someone will slip on dat stuff and gonna sue him. I let dem seven swan loose to swim on da bayou and some stupid duck hunter from Mississippi done blasted dem out da water. Talk to you tomorrow.

Day 8
Dear Emile,
Poor ole Boudreaux had to make 3 trips on his mailboat to deliver dem 8 maids-a-milking & der cows. One of dem cows got spooked by da alligators and almost tipped over da boat. I doan like dem shiftless maids, me. I told dem to get to work gutting fish and sweeping my shack–but dey say it wasn’t in their contract. They probably tink they too good to skin all dem nutria I caught las night.

Day 9
Dear Emile,
What you trying to do? Boudreaux had to borrow da Cameron Ferry to carry these jumping twits you call lords-a-leaping across da bayou. As soon as dey got here dey wanted a tea break and crumpets. I doan know what dat means but I says, “Well la di d
A. You get Chicory coffee or nuthin.” Mon Dieux, Emile, what I’m gonna feed all these bozos? They too snooty for fried nutria, and da cow ate up all my turnip green.

Day 10
Dear Emile,
You got to be out of you mind. If da mailman don’t kill you, I will. Today he deliver 10 half nekkid floozies from Bourbon Street. Dey said they be “ladies dancing” but they doan act like ladies in front of dem Limey sailing boys. Dey almost left after one of them got bit by a water moccasin over by my out- house. I had to butcher 2 cows to feed toute le monde (everybody) and get toilet paper rolls. The Sears catalog wasn’t good enough for dem hoity toity lords. Talk at you tomorrow.

Day 11
Dear Emile,
Where Y’at? Cherio and pip pip. You 11 Pipers Piping arrived today from the House of Blues, second lining as dey got off da boat. We fixed stuffed goose and beef jumbalaya, finished da whiskey, and we’re having a fais-do-do. Da’ new mailman drank a bottle of Jack Daniel, and he’s having a good old time dancing with the floozies. Da’ old mailman done jump off the Moss Bluff Bridge yesterday, screaming you name. If you happen to get a mysterious-looking, ticking package in da mail, don’t open it.

Day 12
Dear Emile,
Me I’m sorry to tell you–but I am not your true love anymore. After the fais-do-do, I spent da night with Jacque, the head piper. We decide to open a restaurant and gentlemen’s club on the bayou. The floozies–pardon me–ladies dancing can make $20 for a table dance, and the lords can be the waiters and valet park da boats. Since da’ maids have no more cows to milk, I trained dem to set my crab traps, watch my trotlines, and run my shrimping business. We’ll probably gross a million dollars next year.

Joyeaux Noel et Bonne Annee!



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