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Kibo : Kibo : Spot Christmas Story #12 (2005)

2005's improvised Christmas story. Is it just me, or do these seem to be getting shorter?


(or, Spot's Twelfth First Christmas)

written Christmas Eve, 2004
Copyright (C) 2004 James "Kibo" Parry

Spot's parents, Spom and Spop, were fast asleep when Spot snuck out of his little doggie bed at precisely 12:01 Christmas morning. Spot hid behind the living room sofa and waited for Santa with his widdle shotgun.

Spot was going to kill Santa, or at least permanently incapacitate him so that he would never again do what he did last year... Spot's vision got all ripply as he had a flashback to last year:

"Oh boy!" said Spot. "I got a present this year!" It was a fun wooden duck with wheels and a string so he could pull it! It was the best gift Spot ever got! And it had a little note on it which said,

Dear Spot,

This is because you were good.


But at the same time, Spom and Spop were opening their present from Santa, which was a year's supply of licorice-flavored Army surplus dog food for Spot, with this note:

Dear Mr. & Mrs. Dog,

Your son Spot was incredibly naughty this year. Enclosed is a list of the 8,157 bad things he did, said, thought, or almost thought this year. Please punish him completely. He is not a good dog.

The Big Red Dude

P.S. Spot still doesn't know he's adopted. You should probably tell him so he won't be surprised when he grows up to be an ugly Boston Terrier.

Spot's Christmas that year was fine until he found out that the icky dog food and the mean note to his parents trumped his stupid little wooden duck. Spot cried until November.

This year, Spot vowed that things would be different. He had made elaborate plans to get revenge on fat Santa. To keep Santa from guessing what he was up to, Spot had pretended nothing was up and mailed Santa a perfectly reasonable-looking Christmas list (he wanted a Play-Doh Plastic Explosive Maker and a whole set of Naked Rescue Heroes and at least half a pony.) To keep Santa from reading his mind, because he knew that telepaths couldn't read through hate, he had been thinking of nothing but murdering Santa. And now he waited with the shotgun.

Then he fell asleep. And while he was asleep, he forgot to keep thinking about killing Santa, and not thinking about killing Santa allowed Santa to read Spot's mind and learn that he wanted to kill Santa, so when Santa came down the chimney he crept behind the sofa and took away Spot's shotgun.

Then he went over to the milk and cookies Spot had left for Santa and threw the glass of cold milk in Spot's face.

Spot woke up and screamed when he saw Santa holding his shotgun.

"Ho ho ho!" yelled Santa in Spot's ear, "You're guilty of attempted naughtiness in the first degree!" Spot cringed as Santa reached into the very bottom of his sack, where he kept the various things he gave to puppies he didn't like.

He handed Spot a history textbook where everything had already been underlined, a ball of used Band-Aids, a Federal grand jury summons, and a small bottle labelled "HERPES IF YOU OPEN THIS, LEPROSY IF YOU DON'T."

Spot screamed in horror at the awfulness of his gifts! They were even worse than Happy Meal prizes! The screams woke up Spom and Spop, and they came running.

"Yay! Santa's here!" said Spop, grabbing his Christmas stocking to see what was inside. Spom hopped over Spot to make a doggie bee-line for hers.

Spot looked at Santa and sobbed, "What did I do to deserve this? I've honestly tried to be a good little puppy this year. I donated both my kidneys, and I haven't even watched TV. Furthermore -- I HAVE NO PENIS!"

Spot looked puzzled as to why he had just blurted that out. Then he did it again. "I HAVE NO PENIS! I HAVE NO PENIS!"

Santa laughed. "You see, Spot, this year one of your parents' presents was a little remote control that makes you yell your new catchphrase."

Spot blanched. "That's mean! Also, that's infantile!"

"Well, Spot, this summer, they invented a way to remotely control brains. And all the scientists of the world agreed that this power should only be used for the very most infantile purposes--"


"--please don't interrupt. The very most infantile purposes, such as little remote control that make bad puppies tell the world something unforgettably sophomoric."

"Waah! Spom and Spop, please stop pushing that button!"

But Spom and Spop were confused. None of the fifty-nine presents they had received was a remote control.

"I remember now!" chortled Santa, "I didn't give it to your parents, I gave it to that cat next door!"


Cat laughter could be faintly heard from down the block.

Spot knew that if he didn't do something immediately, Santa would escape for another year. He had to off Santa now! Fortunately, Spot had prepared a backup plan. He had dug a bottomless pit in the corner of the living room, and so all he had to do was to trick the all-knowing Santa into walking into the bottomless pit.

Santa smiled. "Oh, I can read your brainwaves perfectly, so of course I know you want me to step into your bottomless pit. I'll gladly do it... after you."

Santa gestured at the hole politely, and Spot took a step towards it, then remembered that the hole was bad. "Wait a minute! Your Santa mind tricks aren't so clever I would just throw myself into my death hole without any financial reward! Santa, stop being mean!"

"I'm not being mean, Spot. You're the one who dug the pit in your parent's elegantly-decorated living room. You probably didn't even get a work permit from the city. That's very naughty."

"Santa, I don't give a rat's ass I HAVE NO PENIS! about city regulations when it comes to I HAVE NO PENIS! getting rid of you forever. I challenge you to a round of 'Rock, Scissors, Paper' and the loser has to jump into my Santa hole. Deal?"

"Sure, Spot. On three... One! Two! Three!" Spot, smirking, held out two fingers to make "scissors". Santa, being a more highly-evolved super-being with six fingers, used them all to make "nuclear bomb".

"Ha!" gloated Santa, "Nuclear bomb disintegrates scissors! It's bottomless pit time, loser puppy!"

"Wait," said Spom, "We don't want Spot to die. We do love him, as the law requires. Can't you just punish him by throwing him into a non-bottomless hole? One where he'll hit bottom just hard enough for it to hurt twice as much as a spanking?"

Santa thought about it for a second, then reached into his sack and pulled out enough dirt to fill the bottomless pit halfway. Then he pulled out a cute toy robot that picked up Spot, carried him across the room, spun around emitting cute little sparks, then dropped him into the pit.

"WAAAAAAaaaaah!" thud. "i have no penis!" Spot's voice was faint, but the pain could still be clearly heard. He had fallen on his keys!

Spot tried to climb out of the hole, but he couldn't, so he was arrested for skipping Federal grand jury duty. He was thrown in jail for the rest of his life.

Spot sighed in relief. "At last! I'm safe! Everyone knows Santa doesn't come to jails!"

But, of course, because Spot was in jail, Santa changed his policy and started bringing all the other prisoners stun guns and little remote controls for Spot's brain.

Spot tried to escape, by digging another bottomless hole in his cell, but the only thing he had to dig with was a cardboard spork, and he ripped his spork before getting halfway through his cell's shag carpet.

Spot knew that now there would be no end to his torment. Santa would continue to harass him year after year, unless Spot could find some way to get the death penalty.

Next year, he wrote a letter:

Dear Santa,

Please kill me!


...but Santa never got it, because the only thing Spot had to write with was a torn spork and a piece of shag carpet, and the stamp fell off the carpet square so the Post Office burned his letter to Santa, unlike all the others which were actually delivered.

Spot cried, and was sorry that all this had started just because he was naughty. He wished he had known that it was wrong to suck tokens out of the subway turnstile, but he had been even younger and stupider back then. And now his life was ruined.

They say that Spot's still in that prison. On a cold clear day, when the air is still, you can faintly hear a puppy yelling that he has no penis, and the crackling of a thousand stun guns.

And that's why your subway tokens no longer have dog slobber all over them.


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Last revised
December 25, 2005
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