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Steal the red, white and black

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My name is Santa Claus and all Trini know that just like God, Santa Claus is necessarily a Trini. – Carla Castagne

AS SAID IN BC PIRES

My name is santa claus and all Trini know that just like God, Santa Claus is necessarily a Trini.

I’m from the North Post on the Toco side. If you check it, all over the world there is an address like North Post or North Coast, like every island in the Caribbean has a Church Street. This address was invented to facilitate the me, me of Santa Claus.

I can’t reveal the tech because they and they elves are unionized but, when I leave the North Pole, it’s all right North Post, Trinidad, I come in, through some kind of elf internet WhatsApp-something .

This is how no one sees flying reindeer pulling a sled. North Pole to North Post Trinidad, then North Post Australia, then Asia, then back to the Americas and then I tie everything in You-Rope.

Of course, I have to reach Por’Spain first! I am a Trini!

Boy days at the North Pole didn’t eat well at all. Trini loves air conditioning but that cold blows your head and nose at the same time. You can’t turn it off! It’s like living your whole life in a sno-cone mug! People talk about a spinning top in the mud, but it’s better than a spinning top in the ice!

But the last few years, with covid and everything, I’ve come up with a system where I work from home. At the edge of Toco beach.

I am not North Polish. I am North Post-ish. I am a Trini.

I do not really give my personal files but, yes, I am in a relationship.

That’s right, during those long cold nights delivering gifts like a FedEx from heaven, the only thing that keeps me going is the dream of returning to his arms.

Of course I am gay. Didn’t the red suit, ermine collars, tall black boots, and oversized handbag betray him?

Moreover, only today’s homosexuals have compassion, tolerance and kindness. If I pull this job, I’ll pass the bag of goodies to Elton John.

Of course I believe in God! My day job is to fly a reindeer-drawn sleigh through the air around the entire planet in one night, giving every child in the world gifts in a bottomless sack. If that doesn’t sound like God’s work, you have to at least admit that it doesn’t sound like a nine-to-five either.

For real, if I didn’t believe in miracles, I would be out of work.

What I can’t fathom is that, all the good that I do, all those Christmases where everyone is kissing with their gyul spilling the cream of poncha, and all night in the cold, carrying a heavy bag of crocuses and searching for a fireplace in Goodwood Park – and all people want to know is how reindeer could fly.

Never see an airplane in the sky? Did you ever tell the pilot how iron can fly? Are you going to ask a great man when you finally make him stop and talk?

BC Pires, you come like them chasing the car in the street. When you stop, as a handler, and say to the dog, “Okay, you catch me! What are you going to do now?

And that’s when they pee on your tire! The dorgs!

Huge respect to Newsday for making me bigger. True speech, humanity could do with encouragement. It’s easy, getting up before bed every Christmas Eve and flying fire trucks around everyone, inhaling reindeer fart, just to give the little ones a little gift and good news.

But this is modern life today: the good news and the truth remain and the lies and misinformation go viral. Santa’s cyar gets a two-page color copy, but covid, crime, and Fat Man Donald Trumps splash all over the front page. Misguided youth who succeed in committing murder in Wisconsin receive a standing ovation from people calling themselves conservative.

Keep me from that, yeah-yeah!

Father Christmas has given news again. Is more ho-hum than ho-ho-ho for the I.

The last newspaper to mention me was the New York Sun in 1887! Even this article was really a response to that little American boy who asked if his boyfriends were right in saying that Santa was a Nancy story and the Sun did an editorial with the headlines: “Yes, Virginia, he has a Santa Claus. “

They were really good editorials, eh, with beautiful writing, that they compare me, Santa Claus, to poetry, faith, fantasy, love and romance and everything. The I feel good about that, real talk. But that was 134 years ago. Oh gorm. Are you going to go after a man who half kills himself for the children? Gi ‘we a little documentary or something, nuh!

I will tell you francomen: I do not make a list and do not check it twice. Everyone gets a gift, freeco.

The last time I wrote who was mean and who was nice I got into more trouble than the time Peter Pan sexed me.

All reindeer also have a name on their birth paper and a last name.

Dasher and Dancer are Ato-Boy and Winer-Gyul when not on duty. Prancer remains Prancer. Donder becomes Boy Wonder at home and on the sled as well, when the elves find out his name is Afrikaans – it looks like a Confederate flag in Black Lives Matter.

Elves are good for themselves.

On Dander, on Dancer, my big black ankle boots! No one could remember the nine reindeer names!

The whole world only cares about Rudolph, the red nosed reindeer. It’s the power of a song. Like how you might forget the West Indies cuta – e and remind yourself that Island Dairies is the best in Jamaica.

Eef the world only knew that at home they called Rudolph “Doby”.

Because it does nothing. Nothing-nothing-nothing. He’s a rascal.

Vixen and Blitzen help a bit, push the present into the bag with their noses. Comet helps make the sleigh shine by rubbing its fur on it.

Doby Rudolph just slept all day till night.

And no one ever asks about Olof, even if he too in the song: Olof, the other reindeer, used to laugh and insult him.

The next song is really bothering me too. I’m tired of waiting until the kids are old enough to tell them: I know who it was, but I wasn’t the one who kissed your mother under the mistletoe one night.

I was sick of hearing all the old jokes and they weren’t funny even at first.

Santa Claus only comes once a year.

Why is Santa Claus saying “Ho, ho, ho? Because he just met the Kardashians.

Calm me down. Humanity has a present to deliver.

The best part about being Santa Claus is that, even though it is a hellish ride, you only have to work one night of the year.

The worst part is, even if you put them in a pizza delivery bag on the Crossroads, the doubles are cold by the time you reach the next stop.

What is a Trini? Well I go all over the world and give everyone a free gift from myself and neither ask nor expect thanks. I just want to see them appreciate and appreciate my gift.

These are all the Trini fire trucks in the world.

Trinidad and Tobago is the place that taught me that if you truly give of yourself, you will get all the love you give back, and more.

Even if you are an obese recluse who needs a bad-bad-bad cut, you will be accepted for who you are.

And given some space to play yourself.

Read the full version of this feature Friday night at www.BCPires.com


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