The Ruby Rose Report: Ruby Saves Christmas

 

It was still dark Christmas morning when I got out of bed to pee. I entered the living room and smelled cinnamon. I looked up to find a man with a deep, wrinkled face, a red jacket, pants, and dark boots, sitting in Mommy’s recliner. He was staring straight ahead. I growled my most ferocious growl. It has no effect.

I jumped on his lap and asked him what he was doing in my house.

“Don’t you recognize me?” the man said slowly. ‘I am Santa.”

“But where’s your beard?” I asked.

“It was too fluffy. I couldn’t get a mask on it, so Mrs. Clause cut it off.”

I asked him if he was resting. He smiled. “I was at Betty Lou Chong’s house. Sweet little girl. Left me a plate of brownies. I ate one and shared the rest with my reindeer. A few minutes later we were flying high, when we all began to look at the stars, and the sky, how pretty it was, then we needed a nap. I landed the sled and came inside here.” He looked out the window where the reindeer were sleeping. “I don’t think we are completing our route tonight.”

I asked Santa if he had brownies left, and he produced a small piece. I sniffed it and immediately knew the problem. Santa ate pot brownies, as did his reindeer. Someone would have to save Christmas, and I hoped it wasn’t me.

Santa looked at me: “It’s got to be you.”

I was afraid of that.

He told me the sleigh had been preprogrammed, and the boys assigned to that house magically emerged from the bag. Since I computerized everything, anyone who wants to ride on a sleigh for 24 hours in terrible weather can do it. Do you have any Doritos?” When I told him we didn’t, he replied: “That’s okay, I’ll just eat the gummies Woody Harrelson left out for me.”

 

“Santa!” I yelled, “Don’t eat the gummies!” I was going to be on the sleigh all night.

 

I went outside. It was cold, and I wished I had remembered my lumberjack jacket. I yelled at the reindeer, who, overcome by munchies, were eating the shed. I would need some others to pull my sled.

 

I heard a rustling from the bag and looked inside. Pablo and the ferals were rummaging through the gifts. “What are you doing?” I barked. “You can’t rob Santa.”

 

“Makes no difference to me,” Pablo said. “I once took down the Easter Bunny for moldy Canterbury Eggs.”

 

I suddenly had a fantastic idea. I promised Pablo that Santa would visit him every Christmas if he and his friends pulled the sleigh.

 

“Can we have strawberry covered mice?” he asked, and I promised he could.

 

The Ferrals took the reigns, I grabbed the reins, and we took off high into the sky: “On Pablo, on Pedro, on Carmen, on Ximena, on Santiago, on Mateo, on Alejandro, on Matias,” I yelled. They took a sharp term, almost spilling me from the sled, and I became as quiet as a baby on a redeye from Vegas to LA.

 

Santa had not lied; the GPS and gift program worked. I sat back and enjoyed the ride. When we finished, we returned home. Santa had recovered, but our supply of Chex Mix and Pringles never will. Also, the shed was gone, and the reindeer had removed the grass as Agent Orange had hit it.

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Santa thanked me and gave the ferals a baked ham as a reward. He got in his sled and flew away. I remembered I had forgotten to ask him for a perfect gift for Mommy.

I went to sleep and then woke up the following day wondering if it had all been a dream. I reached under me and found one of Santa’s gummies, and I knew not only had I not been dreaming, but now I had a perfect gift for Mommy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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