Mad Santa.

We join Mad Santa talking to a child on his field-trip to the Fox Television Studios and Olde Christmas Shoppe.

The kid does not know what a terrible toll the bloody War on Christmas has taken on Mad Santa. That his Post-Traumatic Yule Disorder has driven him ever deeper into his cups where he seethes, day and night, in a paranoid rage, seeing phantom Olbermanns lurking in every shadow.

Mad Santa: “What the fuck ‘r you lookin’ at, fatty!?”

Kid: "I, uh, I…"

Mad Santa: “C’mon, jewboy. Ain’t got all day.”

Kid: I’m, uh, Presbyter…

Mad Santa: “Whatever. Santa’s reeeeal busy, kid, and really doesn’t give a shit. What d’you want?”

Kid: “My mom said I should come over here and tell you what I want for Christmas.”

Mad Santa: “Yer Mom, huh? Is she hot?”

Mad Santa leers and belches.

Kid: “What?”

Mad Santa: “What’rya, retard or somethin’? Yer Mom. Is she hot? Like, "loofah hot"?”

The Kid looks completely confused.

Kid: “I dunno what that means. That’s her, over there.”

The Kid points at sweet, older lady.

Mad Santa: “Jeez, kid. Bow-fucking-wow. How ‘bout a sister? You got an older sister?”

Kid: “I…don’t understand…?”

Mad Santa: “Man, you really are a dipshit aren’t you? A sister? Older? Hehehe. Might wanna get up on Santa’s lap. Hehehe. Little mistletoe action. Hehehe. You follow?”

Kid: “I’m eight, mister! My mom told me to come ask you for a bike.”

Mad Santa shrugs and takes a long pull from his bottle.

Mad Santa: “Fine. ‘What can Santa blah-blah-blah’?”

Kid takes out a list.

Kid: "I’d like a bike."

Mad Santa: "Ok."

Kid: "And an iPod."

Mad Santa: "Whatever."

Kid: "And some Army Men."

Mad Santa: What the FUCK did you just say?

Kid pales.

Kid: Some Army Me…

Mad Santa: “Olbermann! You said “Olbermann” , didn’t you, you little prick?!.”

Kid: “Wh…I…I didn’t. I…I…”

Mad Santa: "That’s it. You’re outta here pissant!"

Kid starts tearing up.

Kid: "Bu...bu…but, Santa?"

Mad Santa: "You’re dead, kid. You and that fat slut of a mother."

Kid starts crying.

Mad Santa: "Guard! Guard! Get this half-pint pussy outta my sight."

Kid starts screaming as guards dressed in festive Fox suits drag the Kid and his mother away.

Mad Santa bellows after them

Mad Santa: “I’ve got your number you filthy degenerates. Expect a visit from Dasher, Dancer, Knee-Capper and Cold-Cocker tonight!”

Mad Santa: “Next.”

A tiny, green man appears out of nowhere. Whether it's a real elf, or yet another whiskey-fueled, PTYD hallucination we do not know.

Mad Santa: “What'n the hell are you supposed to be?”

Elf: "I’m an elf."

Mad Santa squints drunkenly.

Mad Santa: “Okay, freak…”

Elf: "I’ve fallen on hard times, and my overall ranking has fallen way, way down."

Mad Santa: “Uh-huh…”

Elf: "I can’t face my wife or kids anymore, and I need your help."

Mad Santa kills the bottle, scowls, and throws it at the alleged elf.

It sails right on through the tiny creature.

Mad Santa starts to laugh evilly.

Mad Santa: “And how exactly am I supposed to help you?”

Elf: I need you to work your Santa Magic and help me raise my Elf Ranking.

Mad Santa lurches unsteadily to his feet.

Mad Santa: What did you just say?

Elf pales from a forest to a lime green.

Elf: My Elf Ranki …

Mad Santa: “Al Franken! You got the fucking nerve to come here and say “Al Franken” to me you little snotball!?

And now we leave Mad Santa, trolley completely off the tracks, shrieking at thin air and threatening to bring down the Wrath of the Cops and Rupert [Murdoch] the Red State Pamphleteer on anyone that fails to flatter him.