The Paparazzi’s Holiday

See, Santa didn’t always have the posh digs he has now. That super-sized Mcmansion was an acquisition only after he and the misses proved themselves to their sponsors. Hey, those toys don’t make themselves. They aren’t constructed by elves, either. Those poor saps have enough to do getting the big guy ready for his yearly deliveries. And I heard that scoop right from the source.

I captured this photo on one of my regular visits to the ski slopes. We get ‘em where we can find ‘em, and snow towns are ripe with celebs. I can only hope to snap Paris falling into a drift. But anyway, there I was, a paparazzi down on his luck, on the edge of a second rate lodge.

There wasn’t even a broken down botoxed star anywhere within a ten mile radius, so to console myself I’d found a tavern where the beer and women were cheap. Maybe it was holiday magic, but after a couple of cold ones who should stumble in but two short men dressed all in green. The regulars ignored them, but my radar engaged. You never know. Pretty soon I heard them griping about their boss… mostly about being worked to death. One of them moved his hat around to scratch and I could have sworn those ears were pointed.

I followed them outside when they left. They complained all the way back to a hovel of a house: shingles falling off, haphazard decorations, and a fat surly reindeer pooping on the front lawn. It wasn’t pretty, but the place smelled of vanilla and candy canes. Weird. I peeked through the window, and there he was: the fat man himself, dressed in a ratty bathrobe trimmed in white fur. He caught me staring, put a finger to the side of his nose, and shook his head.

I took a picture anyway. Any pap worth his salt would have. But no one would buy the photo. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. I couldn’t really blame them…who’d believe it? I wasn’t even sure I did. Don’t know if he used the old place to take a break, couldn’t let go of his past, or if he used the location to take advantage of his workers where no one could see.

What I did know was I never got nothin’ for Christmas after that. That’s life in my profession. Paris doesn’t send me a card, either. I might go back, though. Maybe I could catch the misses in a hot tub…