From: email@example.com Subject: A Very Special "My Ass" Christmas Date: 22 Dec 1999 00:00:00 GMT Message-ID: <firstname.lastname@example.org> Newsgroups: alt.fan.tom-servo,alt.fan.browneyed-girl,alt.duke.basketball I got the call on December 23, 1999. I was on leave in Florida and had taken my ass with me. Somehow our superiors tracked down my grandmother's phone number and called me up on vaction. "PFC Dillon, this is General Blevins from FORSCOM. Get your ass to the nearest military post immediately." "Yes, sir." I drove to a nearby Naval Reserve base, where a UH-60 helicopter was ready to pick my ass up. As I returned to my family, my ass was delivered to an emergency breifing in Washington, D.C. "Gentlemen," began Gen. Blevins, "I am dismayed to inform you that our greatest fears have returned. The Red Menace is upon us once again." "Communists?" gasped Secretary of Defence William Cohen. "Who is it this time? Cubans? Chinese? Swedish?" "Even worse," replied Blevins, as he turned on an overhead projector. "This is our enemy. His name is Nikolai Koloskov. His code name: Santa Claus." The assembled leaders gaped at the image of what appeared to be a jolly old elf. Someone commented that his midsection looked a bit like a "bowl full of jelly." He didn't look much like a post-Soviet operative. "This 'Santa Claus' is one of the most cleverly disguised spies we've dealt with. He was clumsy about a few details, of course -- the red uniform is the obvious mark of a Commie. But most sinister of all are his methods. He starts young -- spreading his propaganda to children all over the world. Our sources indicate that tomorrow, at 2000 hours, he will launch from his secret base at the South Pole for a one-night mission to nearly every family home on the planet." "I thought Santa lived at the North Pole?" asked Cohen. "More Communist propaganda. You don't think they'd just come out and tell us where he's *really* based, do you?" "This is a very serious matter," President Clinton spoke up. "In response to the situation, we have assembled an elite team of military commandos to prevent Santa from launching his mission." He indicated my ass and two other people. "This is Lt. Alan Saulsby of the Navy SEALs; Brendan Dillon's ass, of the US Army; and Sergey Bukhman, of the Israeli special forces." (See, I told you that Sergey and my ass ran ops into Antarctica.) * * * Soon they departed, and by 1200 hours the next day, the team had arrived at the South Pole and were attempting to infiltrate Santa's compound. As they approached a sentry at the gate, Sergey said something in Russian. The sentry's jaw dropped and he ran off into the frozen desert. "What did you just say?" my ass asked. "I told him that the Easter Bunny was coming to exact revenge. Let's go." The commandos entered Santa's compound umimpeded from that point. They scurried down hallways, crawled through ventilation shafts, and anything else to stay undetected as they searched for Claus' main operations center. "I think this is it," Saulsby said. "Let's initiate the plan." "Check," whispered my ass, as it turned on a cell phone and called me up in Florida. "Brendan, eat the nine bean soup now." A few minutes later, Sergey and Saulsby donned their gas masks and kicked open the door, and my ass rolled in and let it loose. Many of Santa's little helpers collapsed immediately. The other two leaped in and started picking off the remaining evil elves. The elves tried to retaliate, but they just didn't have enough time to mount a successful counterattack. The team moved in and converged on an office near the back of the room. That door, too, was kicked down. Santa Claus looked up from his desk in shock. Then he noticed my ass. "So, we meet again, after all this time." "You're going down, Santa," my ass declared. "We will see about that. You may have gotten past my worthless hench-elves, but I will not be as forthcoming." "You Commie bastard, I've killed dozens like you," said Lt. Saulsby. "You're nothing but a two-bit terrorist to me." "And I saw what you did to that little girl at the mall last week, you sick pervert," added Sergey. Santa dismissed all this with a wave of his hand. "I am not impressed with talking shit, you capitalist scum." He pulled a 9mm pistol from a desk drawer and began to take aim. The team quickly dropped to the floor, and Sergey fired off a round, which hit Santa in the belly. The jolly old elf staggered back, then stabilized himself. "Ha! You think all this fat is real? The KGB did have maximum height-to-weight ratios for its operatives, you know." He shot Saulsby through the forehead. "No!!!1!" my ass yelled, then faced Santa with a much stronger air of determination. "Let's smear him, Sergey." My ass switched his rifle to 'burst' mode, and Sergey set his AK-47 on full automatic. Both began emptying their clips on Santa Claus. He screamed as the bullets finally carved their way through the padding he wore. "Stop!" yelled my ass as Santa fell to the floor. "Let's bring him in now. Let him live -- in a military prison." * * * On Christmas Day, the President presented the Defense Meritorious Service Medal to my ass and to Sergey. "On behalf of the United Nations and children everywhere, I would like to thank you both for saving the world from the menace of Santa Claus." "Tweren't nothin', sir," my ass replied, and got back on a helicopter to return to our vacation. .....My ass saved Christmas. The gifts I bought everyone ruined it again. --- Brendan Dillon (aka Antifrance), General Purpose God email@example.com http://ducttape.simplenet.com "He sounds like a child molester volunteering to babysit." -Curry Leslie
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