Drive My Sleigh

By Sarah Johnson

Dear Getting My Kicks In Canmore,

Santa’s going to pretend you didn’t confess to stealing a plum, because otherwise you’ve been fairly good this year. But that’s not the reason you wrote me, is it?

You want to drive my sleigh.

Since your ‘predilection’ as you call it, is bound to result in death by misadventure at some point anyway, I’m giving your request serious consideration.

I propose a trade. You want to drive my sleigh? Well, Santa would really love a Christmas off. So I’ll hand you the reins, but you have to take everything that goes with them.

Still interested, Kicks?

Assuming the answer is ‘yes’, I’ll go through a few things you should know about Santa Duty.

1. The elves will do a pre-flight check on the sleigh. I recommend double and triple checking that. By Christmas Eve the elves are exhausted. One year we almost took off without Rudolph (last minute run to the little reindeer’s room).

2. On the subject of reindeer, Blitzen is a homophobe and a bully. Keep him and Prancer separated at all times.

3. Occasionally you’ll get a child (or an adult) who stays awake, clutching their phone, hoping to get a sweet up-chimney pic for their Facebook or whatever. If this happens, don’t panic. Tucked behind the glove compartment on the sleigh, you’ll find a baggy full of white powder. Don’t ask me what it is, or where I got it, and for the love of Christmas, don’t mention it to Mrs. Claus. Just blow a pinch in the offender’s face, and say nighty-night. Then erase the evidence and be on your merry. They won’t remember a thing.

4. We don’t do coal in the stockings anymore. Legal says it leaves us wide open to liability. Apparently it’s emotionally scarring. So yeah, no coal.

5. Eat a few cookies and drink some milk, but leave the beer okay? Trust me. It’s a long night and you do not want to be circling the earth at FTL speeds with a belly full of Oreos and Michelob Light.
The rest is self-explanatory. Harness the team, drop off presents, have the sleigh back in the garage by morning.

If that sounds agreeable, report to the North Pole on December 24th.

Merry Christmas,
St. Nick

P.S. One more thing, Kicks. You scratch my ride and you’ll wish you’d broken your neck on that ladder. Comprendé?