Secret Santa
by Chip Undercover
Earlier this month, I was taking the air with the big guy himself, Santa Claus, on the veranda of a South Beach nightclub. He comes here for a week or so before the busy season to relax, pump pina coladas (they match his beard), and guess which girls on the dance floor are naughty or nice.
We stood, overlooking the gyrating action below us, when it occurred to me, Santa has the best intelligence network in the world. Forget about the CIA, the Mossad, MI6, and Kmart, they are no match for the big fella. Santa knows all the players, where they are and when they are sleeping. I then noticed six little men with sunglasses, ear buds, and funny shoes scanning the crowd. They are the Elf Elite, cute, cuddly and lethal, he said. Chubby, who would want to hurt you, the Easter Bunny? He gave out a belly laugh, he really does this, and said no, Harvey’s ok. My guys keep the paparazzi, Moonies and Democrats away.
My wife, now she knows security and never forgets a thing. She is still raw with me about the time I delivered swim suits to the Rockettes dressing room in ’66. They were so grateful that they tried them on for me, the little darlings.
We continued the night sipping Bullet Rye, he prefers this to milk and cookies, talking flight schedules, no fly zones, and international customs agents. Somewhere into the second bottle, a gift from a hopeful manager, we began discussing the PCGC membership and what was on their secret wish lists.
He said it was mostly the typical stuff like Sonic Sid seeking more club head speed, Cabo Nick asking for Mexican Immunity, and Big Al looking for replacement loaded dice. Stuff like that. I pored him some more rye and asked him about the more difficult requests to fill. After a nice pull from his tumbler he said, of course Chip, with this crew there will always be tough wishes to grant. For example, John Jurgins and Bryan U. both asked for Miss October. Several members asked Saturdays to be extended to spend more time with Mel. Blue Moon wants the holes to be larger, while Mr. Marco wants worldwide color coordination. Billy F. wants a red wagon and 300 yard drives.
You know I can’t break laws other than gravity and physics. It just isn’t right. How do you do it, I asked. All of that pressure, time commitments, Elves unions, hunters, PETA pulling you in a different direction. You are amazing Chubs, amazing. He smiled, tapped the bottle of rye, winked and walked off with his lovely assistant. I smiled too, knowing I now had something on the big guy.
It’s going to be a happy holiday season indeed.
Merry Chipmas