A Christmas Skit for Children: The Interview

Every year, my sister organizes a homeschooler Christmas Pageant during which the kids (currently from ages 10 to 18) get to show us parents what they can do. My kids usually like to put on a short skit. In previous years, I have written and directed, but this year I wanted them to play a larger role so I actually listened to their suggestions, no matter how awkward they might be, and wrote pretty much what they told me to, though I added one or two items. I also allowed them to decide how they would act it all out. I advised but did not argue if they overruled me... which they did many times.

A couple of things to note...

• EI stands for Employment Insurance which is a Canadian government program that pays a percentage of your old wage if you suddenly find yourself unemployed. Some try to stretch the benefit as long as possible by applying for jobs while never intending to get hired. To do this, they need proof that they are applying regularly.

• Another thing I need to mention is that there is a reference to "The Onsie Kid," which is a very short music parody video which Noah made last year and which briefly went viral among the homeschooler families we know. This video can be viewed at the link beneath the picture...

Onsie Kid Video: https://youtu.be/GAjvUiptt4k

• Every year, the homeschoolers vote on a theme that all acts must try to incorporate. This year, each act had to include the following four words: Bidet, Waddle, Trump and Maple Syrup.

Below is the final script, which, as always, I release into the public domain in case another desperate parent out there can make some use of it. A link to the video of the final performance is at the end.

The Interview

(must use the words: Waddle, Maple Syrup, Trump and Bidet)

Santa at his desk: “Send in the next applicant! I do hope this one’s a winner. Not sure I can take another 5 billion landings. [adjusting the donut under his bum]

APPLICANT: Dude! This place is amazing. It’s like a full-on mansion. Even has a water fountain in the toilet!

SANTA: The bidet?

APPLICANT: Wow! Even a fancy name!

SANTA: Uhhhh… Breath mint?

APPLICANT: Thanks. Love the place. Love the job. I’ll take it!

SANTA: Hold on there, The Flash, we’ve got a few formalities to go through first. I got your online resume. Uh—it’s a picture of a dog.

APPLICANT: A puppy!

[Long pause while they stare each other down and we wait for Santa’s reaction…]

SANTA: I do love pugs! Sooo cute. Everyone knows that online applications are just for show anyway. We only hire friends and family. You’re my friend’s friend’s friend, so Ha! [rubber stamps the application] Look at that! You’re on the shortlist!

APPLICANT: I even have my own suit!

SANTA: You do?

APPLICANT: I really thought you’d notice.

SANTA: HR rules. We’re not allowed to ask. But, why a bear?

APPLICANT: It’s a dog!

SANTA: Looks like a bear…

APPLICANT: I mean, which would you rather see: A fat old man waddling about in some sort of fetish get up, or a cute puppy?

SANTA: Sorry. That’s not regulation.

APPLICANT: But this’ll make people remember Christmas during the holiday season.

SANTA: What are you talking about? Christmas is the reason for the season!

APPLICANT: Really? I think you’re forgetting Black Friday and Cyber Monday!

SANTA: Ok, you can wear it under the red suit…

APPLICANT: YES! [does the Onsie Dance]

SANTA: …but I’ve got’ta warn you, it’s gon’na chafe. Hey, wait a minute. Aren’t you that Onsie Boy?

APPLICANT: Onsie Kid. In the fake flesh!

SANTA: That dance went viral here at The Pole. It’s pretty close quarters in the workshop and twenty elves got poked in the eye but they totally love you! Wow! This is going to work out great. Ok, just a couple more question. It’s just a formality, but I’ve got to ask: Are you ok with drugging reindeer?

APPLICANT: You drug the reindeer?

SANTA: Well reindeer don’t fly on their own, you know! Got to get them … high.

APPLICANT: Oh. I guess.

SANTA: And you’ve got to push those elves.

APPLICANT: I thought the elves naturally loved to work hard making presents for all the little boys and girls.

SANTA: Are you kidding me? I swear, if it weren’t for rationing their home heating, they wouldn’t work at all! ...for free …16 hours a day…every day of the year. Oh yes, and how many cookies can you eat?

APPLICANT: Maybe four.

SANTA: This is a deal breaker, son. If you can’t eat at least 27... million, you can’t handle this job.

APPLICANT: Are they gluten-free?

SANTA: Almost never.

APPLICANT: Oh. Then, no problem.

SANTA: Have you got any questions for me?

APPLICANT: Can I use your wifi? (pronounced wiffy)

SANTA: My wifey? What have you heard? Those were trumped up charges. Wifey don’t do that no more.

APPLICANT: Uh... Wi-fi.

SANTA: Oh. That’s much more likely. Well, you’ve got the job. Report for work at 8am.

APPLICANT: I’m sorry, what?

SANTA: You’ve got the job.

APPLICANT: Like 8 in the morning? I mean is Starbucks even open then? Believe me, you do not want to see me without my Starbucks.

SANTA: It’s only one day a year.

APPLICANT: Yeah. You know what? That really doesn’t work for me.

SANTA: Go to bed early.

APPLICANT: I would, but right now, I really need my nights. I’m marathoning Game of Thrones on Netflix and just don’t want to break the momentum.

SANTA: You can sleep-in 363 days, afterward.

APPLICANT: Well…

SANTA: It’s one single day.

APPLICANT: Well… ok.

SANTA: Great. See you bright and early, tomorrow morning!

APPLICANT: Dude! Tomorrow’s like, Christmas Eve!

SANTA: Yes. That’s kind of the point…

APPLICANT: No one works Christmas Eve!

SANTA: Actually, lots of people…

APPLICANT: Ah, if you could just sign my E.I. form to say that I applied, that’d be great.

SANTA: Ugh! Not another one! (Sigh) OK.

[APPLICANT hands over his paperwork and Santa signs it…]

APPLICANT: Maple syrup!

SANTA: Er, what was that?

APPLICANT: Sorry. Tourette's.

The Interview Video: https://youtu.be/tqQ4-MspvkM

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Daddy-style Fairy Tales: Little Peter's Christmas Miracle

My kids are 10 and 12 and love to hear my fairy tales which I tell while tucking them into bed. Ok, "love to hear" may be less accurate than "willing to endure," but I'm not one to split hairs. If I interrupted their play-filled day to tell them the same story, they'd no doubt consider it child abuse. But, at bedtime, they'd listen to me recite my tax returns if it bought them an extra ten minutes with the lights on. As they say, "timing is everything."

     Still, I enjoy watching their little faces while I'm reading. They're so cute when they grimace and roll their eyes, and I challenge myself to see how many times I can make them groan.

     After hearing this one, my son groaned (yes!) and commented, "Well, that was a huge waste of valuable sleeping time," but his face flickered with a smile he fought to contain.

     Huzzah!

     If you have little children who enjoy rolling their eyes and groaning, or who, perhaps, are willing to do so in exchange for an extra ten minutes at bedtime, then sit them down and recount this short tale of Christmas magic...




Little Peter's Christmas Miracle 

      Once upon a time, in a land far from those who lived close by, a very old man lived all alone in a cottage in the forest, at the edge of a small village. He had never married and had no children and was known to be sad and lonely. He was also crotchedy—probably because he was sad and lonely, but, perhaps, because of anal fissures. No one could be sure.

     Every day, he would venture out from his little house and slowly, very slowly, make his way into town to buy groceries, after which he would trundle, slowly, very slowly, to the park and sit on a bench and feed the birds while listening to the children frolicking, close by.

     Peter was the littlest of all the boys his age, but he had the biggest heart and also anime eyes, which were really cute, but totally distracting. These are the kind of congenital mishaps that occur, sometimes, in small villages, if cousins marry. Little Peter noticed the old man and came to sit beside him on the park bench.

     "My name's Peter," he said, which was not obvious, yet very true, and a perfectly good way to introduce yourself, if your name happens to be Peter.

     The old man did not look at little Peter, or acknowledge him in any way, except to say, "Too much information. What do you want?"

     "I just want everyone in the who-o-ole world to feel love and to be happy," replied little Peter, flashing a Cheshire smile and his anime eyes, which, of all of his features were two of the safest ones to flash.

     The old man took no notice, which surprised little Peter because everyone was always impressed by this anime eyes—especially when he added his Cheshire smile.

     In his most crotchety voice, the old man began, "Kid, I just want to feed the birds..."

     "That's really nice!" interrupted Peter, enthusiastically.

     "... to my cat!" finished the old man. And with that, he suddenly grabbed one of the little birds by its throat and shoved it into a small cloth bag. For someone who was slow, very slow, on his feet, he was fast, very fast, with his hands.

     "Ohhh!" exclaimed little Peter.

     The old man tied closed the rustling, squeaking bag, crotchety-pleased to have shocked little Peter.

     "You can't do that!" exclaimed Peter.

     "Ha! I just did."

     "But that's a Christmas Dove and it's only three days until Christmas!"

     "Sounds delicious!" grunted the old man, rising from the bench.

     "Wait 'til Santa finds out!" warned little Peter.

     The man hesitated. "You believe in Santa?"

     "Of course!" said little Peter.

     "Well, I'm really old and I've never seen him! Christmas means nothing to me."

     Little Peter was shocked that someone would ever say such a thing and his hands flew to his mouth, his grin collapsing into the shape of a something circular. But then, at that very moment, his glistening anime eyes caught those of the old man and in them, he glimpsed a hundred years of hurt and disappointment. In his heart, he instantly felt the old man's pain and anguish. In his stomach, he felt a bit hungry; his butt was tingling slightly, as well, but such details were not relevant and so, never became part of this story.

     As the old man ambled away, slowly, very slowly, the small sack squealing and fluttering on his shoulder, Peter resolved to bring happiness to this sad figure by creating a true Christmas miracle!

     It took him two days to set his plan in motion.

     The van rental had been especially tricky as he could barely reach the pedals and didn't know how to drive. But Peter had flashed his Cheshire grin and anime eyes and explained to the rental agent that he was on a mission to perform a Christmas miracle, and the rental agent had suddenly smiled, ear to ear—but, more importantly, turned his back to put away the rental forms. And that's when Peter grabbed the keys and bolted for the van. Making good use of the bumper, he managed to escape the parking lot and drive across town to meet up with the other boys his age whose help he had enlisted. And no one was injured or killed, so his plan was really beginning to look like a Christmas miracle.

     It was now late on Christmas Eve and, under cover of darkness, he and the other boys his age made their way down the tiny road that led to the old man's cottage, backed the van to his doorstep and rang the bell. The old man was slow to be rousted but, finally, he opened the door and came face to face with little Peter, Cheshire grin and anime eyes set all aglow, by the light of his tiki torch.

     "What's going on? What do you want?" shouted the old man.

     Peter giggled with a maniacal variety of glee, and pronounced, "It's going to be a Christmas miracle!" whereupon he snapped his fingers and two of the other boys shoved a burlap sack over the old man's head, pushed him into the back of the van, and drove off to Santa's village where they knocked on Santa's door. (For this small town was very near the North Pole and everything in it was made of ice and covered in snow. Did I not mention that? Oh. Well, it was. That's why Peter's butt had been tingling from frostbite while he sat on the park ice-bench. Also, the rental van was a ski-do-type van.)

     Santa came to the door wearing only underpants and a sock. Another sock was in his hand and he looked flustered; obviously in a rush. Santa was hairy and he was very old, so all the hair on his body was white. Coincidentally, his underwear was also white fur so that it looked like he was naked and especially hairy, down there. Everyone except the old man thought that it was gross. "Good heavens, boys. Don't you know it's Christmas Eve? I don't have time for—did you kidnap an old man?"

     "Well, technically, old-man-napped... and, old men nap all the time, so..." Little Peter flashed his Cheshire smile and anime eyes and Santa's heart melted so it was a good thing he wasn't Frosty the Snowman.

     "Ho, ho, ho. What can I do for you, little Peter?"

     "I brought someone who needs to meet you," replied little Peter, pulling the sack off the old man's head. The old man stood there in the soft glow of the porch light, face to face with Santa.

     "You!" Santa exclaimed.

     "Who else would I be, Santa?" replied the old man.

     Little Peter was now more confused than usual. "Wait a minute! I thought you didn't believe in Santa."

     "Get me a cane!" demanded the old man.

     Little Peter thought it very rude demanding candy from Santa, especially on Christmas Eve. "Oh no you di—in't..." he muttered, and he and the other boys his age began to giggle nervously, anxious to see how Santa would punish the old man for his insolence.

     But Santa remained quiet and still, and the old man turned to little Peter. "I never said I don't believe in Santa, you idiot! I said I've never seen him."

     "Well now you have!" said little Peter, beaming proudly. "All because of my Christmas miracle!"

     "I'm blind, moron. Where's my cane?"

     I may have forgotten to mention that he tapped his way to town, using a white cane. This was one reason that he had to walk slowly, very slowly.

     "Oh," said Little Peter.

     "And where's my oxygen tank?"

     "You want an oxygen tank for Christmas?" asked little Peter, even more bewildered than usual because, although little Peter had a big heart, he had a small mind; so small that he wouldn't have known a Snow Dove from a common Brown Bat and could only think slowly, very slowly.

     "No, you knucklehead, the great big oxygen tank that I have to lug around everywhere I go."

     Oh yeah, that was another reason that he had to walk slowly, very slowly; because he had a heart condition and had to carry a huge tank of oxygen with him, everywhere he went.

     "Oh," said little Peter who finally seemed to come up to speed and who, incidentally, was 25 years old, like all the other boys his age.

     The old blind man turned, mistakenly facing no one, and said, "As long as I'm here, Santa, let's talk about that Rubic's Cube you put in my stocking last Christmas..."

Epilogue:
     Santa later testified in court, and little Peter and the other boys his age were sentenced to prison on charges of kidnapping and grand theft, auto. But it was an ice-prison and they managed to escape during a heated argument.

     The old man was actually a great magician—this is why he was fast, very fast, with his hands. He had once been very powerful and had, in fact, given Santa his magical powers, way back when he, Santa, and the world were young. More recently he made helium balloon animals and sold them online, shipping them in little boxes that tended to float and saved money on delivery charges.

     After this incident, the old blind man slowly, very slowly, returned to his daily routine of tapping his way into town, lugging his oxygen tank, sitting in the park, trapping birds for his cat, alone in the knowledge that he was sad and lonely because he didn't actually have a cat. The truth was that lately, every time he'd made it to the grocery store, it was closed, so he had been forced to come to the park and trap birds to eat at home. What he didn't realize was that his Braille watch was running slow and he was now always going to town at night, after store hours, when the only ones in the park were gangs of losers partying and smoking cigarettes, like Peter.

Also, the birds tasted a lot like common Brown Bats.


CHRISTMAS BONUS! 
Alternate Endings:
     After this incident, the old blind man slowly, very slowly, returned to his daily routine of tapping his way into town, lugging his oxygen tank, sitting in the park, trapping birds for his cat, alone in the knowledge that he was sad and lonely because...

(A) ...his cat never ate any of the birds he brought home for it. Only the cat knew that he was actually a rabbit. Also, it was made out of a balloon.

(B) ...he had never married because he got tired of the blind dating scene.

(C) ...he was German and afraid people would call him a not-see.

(D) ...he never enjoyed jokes because he couldn't see the humour in them.

(E) ...he never married. He'd once had a girlfriend, but after she broke up with him, he just couldn't make himself start seeing other people.

(F) ...he was racist and constantly worried that he might be black.

EXTRA CHRISTMAS BONUS...

30 sec. CHRISTMAS BONUS VIDEO...

One basic difference between my 2 kids...

#kids #parenting #humor #funny #video

https://youtu.be/TbNZ8FgYMh0

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Fairy Tales...Daddy-style!

My kids are 9- and 11-years-old and sometimes when they are especially devious, they appeal to my writer's ego to manipulate me into making up a story at bedtime. Fortunately, the standards are low as the story doesn't actually have to be entertaining at all so long as it prolongs their evening.

Here is a transcript of this evening's session:

NOAH: Dad, tell us a story.

RIHANA: Yeah, your stories are the best, Dad!

NOAH: Yeah, Dad. The best!

ME: Well...

BOTH KIDS: Pleeeeeeeeze?

ME: Ok. Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Noah who had a small pet rabbit. He fed it carrots, but it refused to eat. So then he tried cabbage, but again, it did not eat. After this, he tried corn and peas and licorice and coffee and tobacco. But it would not eat any of these things, which, on the whole, was probably for the best as rabbits are jumpy enough. One day, as Noah bent to fill the rabbit's bowl with amphetamines, the creature nipped off a lock of the boy's hair and began to chew greedily. That's when Noah realized that his bunny was actually... a hare.

BOTH KIDS: D-a-a-a-d!

They're groaning dramatically and rolling their eyes, but I can tell they liked it.

ME: Ok, ok. Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Rihana who had a small pet fly. Why did she have a pet fly? Because she was that poor, that's why. Anyway, she tried feeding her fly fly-foods but it refused to eat. She tried fermented fruit, but it did not eat. She tried rotten vegetables, but it would not eat. She tried raw sewage, but still, her pet fly refused to eat. Finally, one day she was making a butter sandwich (because she was too poor to afford jam) and a small speck of butter flew off of her finger (because she couldn't afford a knife) and on the lid of her fly's jar. The fly immediately buzzed over to it and started licking the butter through the single air hole (because she was too poor to afford more air holes) and that's when she realized that her fly was actually... a butterfly!

BOTH KIDS: D-a-a-a-a-d! Seriously?

Those simple ideas occurred to me a few weeks ago and I'd held on to them for just such an occasion. But earlier, at dinner, another one popped into my head and I've used those first two stories to stall while I gather and organize the elements for this one...

ME: OK. I will now tell you the tragic story of the man with three birds.

One day a man walked into a pet shop and purchased a beautiful bird and a beautiful golden cage in which to keep him. The bird had feathers of every colour of the rainbow and sang a hundred beautiful songs; many of them Taylor Swift's. The man was very pleased with his purchase and every day he spent hours gazing into the golden cage at the gorgeous creature, listening to its top one hundred.

But one day, the bird no longer sang and the man was puzzled. This continued and the man became concerned. He returned to the pet shop and sought advice. The store owner sold him the very best seed after which he immediately returned home and filled the bird's bowl with the expensive mixture. But this changed nothing. A few days later he returned again to the pet shop and sought more advice. The store owner pondered, then suggested a mirror. Perhaps if the bird had the image of another bird to sing to it would restore its inspiration to sing. The man bought a large and ornate mirror that matched the cage and installed it but this also changed nothing. Once more the man returned to the pet store and this time the owner sold him a golden brush with which to preen the bird, one feather at a time. The man did this for hours, religiously, every day and yet the bird would not sing.

Finally, in desperation, the man gathered up the cage and returned to the pet store whereupon, after hearing his customer's complaint, the manager took one look at the tiny creature and declared, "Well, I know what your problem is."

"You do?" asked the man, hope swelling in his heart.

"Oh yes. Absolutely," said the store owner. "This bird's dead."

So the store owner sold that same man another bird that he guaranteed would sing and was of a much heartier stock so that it was much less likely to stop singing just because of death. The man went home and was thrilled as the bird sang a sad, but beautiful song all the way home and on into the night. But after a few weeks, the man became depressed. The bird would only sing heart-rending melodies that made the soul ache. He thought to cheer the bird by filling its bowl with the highest quality seed that he'd previously purchased for his last pet. Greedily, the bird ate the seed but still its songs remained sad. Then the man thought, perhaps the bird is lonely, so he installed the mirror that he'd purchased for his last bird. The bird spent hours ogling and singing to his reflection, but all the songs remained sad. Finally, the man returned to his ritual of brushing each feather with the special brush he'd purchased at the pet store, but no matter how much time and care he invested, the bird's songs remained sad.

Finally, in desperation, the man gathered up the cage and returned to the pet store whereupon, after hearing his customer's complaint, the manager took one look at the tiny creature and declared, "Well, I know what your problem is."

"You do?" asked the man, hope swelling in his heart.

"Oh yes. Absolutely," said the store owner. "This bird's a blue bird."

At this point, the man became agitated. Feeling that the pet store owner had twice deceived him, he returned the bird and this time he chose his own bird, not allowing the store owner to say a word so that he might not be thrice led astray. Perusing the store, he came upon a magical-seeming creature that could spontaneously alter its colour to any hue of the rainbow. The bird did not sing, but it was so lovely and unusual in form that the man was very pleased, and anyway he now considered the lack of voice to be a blessing. Refusing all help from the store owner, he placed the bird in the cage himself, paid and returned home.

Much to the man's delight this bird's magic did not diminish. It still changed colour many times a day and, blissfully, remained mute. But after about a week, the man noticed that the bird looked thin and frail. He immediately filled its dish with the premium bird seed, but the bird refused to eat and a few days later, looked even thinner. He installed the mirror and though the bird did gaze into it, it continued to weaken until it fell from its perch and lay, listless, at the bottom of the cage. He got the special brush and brushed the bird's entire body, leaving no patch unpreened. But still, the bird continued to deteriorate.

The man was very concerned, but suspecting that he had now been thrice fooled and not keen to endure more humiliation, he did not return to the pet store. Instead, he took the frail creature in his hands and stepped out onto the balcony of his 55th-floor apartment, leaned out over the railing and drew back his hands, setting the little bird free—at which point it plummeted the entire 55 floors, landing with a sticky splat!—magically transforming into a small red smudge on the sidewalk below.

The man was horrified at what had occurred and immediately called a veterinarian who arrived within minutes whereupon, after hearing his customer's complaint took one look at the remains of the unfortunate creature and declared, "Well, I know what your problem is."

"You do?" asked the man, hope swelling in his heart.

"Oh yes. Absolutely," said the veterinarian. "This was a Chameleon."


BOTH KIDS: Goodnight, Dad.

ME: Nailed it!

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