Santa Claus has 9 reindeer, and only 1 of them is any good. Each Christmas he frees them from the ungodly, shit-filled pens that he keeps them cooped up in for the other 364 days, and he whips them mercilessly until they haul his chonky butt through one full and complete lap of the globe.
With a fleet of 9 there were always bound to be a couple of passengers, but I’m here to tell you that the heavy lifting is done by just 1. There are 8 lazy ass snow cows lashed to that rickety red sleigh, and 1 four-legged Yuletide God who could smash the whole thing out by himself were it permitted by reindeer union rules.
The King of Reindeer is Dasher. He is a mighty beast. The other 8 reindeer are useless pigshit animals not worth the bells they jingle.
Observe my holly and/or jolly methodology thusly.
Red-nosed bitch. Useless freak. Unholy glowing dork. Piece of shit not even worthy of a spot in the regular starting lineup. There’s no Sixth Man of the Year award for reindeers you gutless wonder. Sit on the bench and wait for another foggy night, ugly. Santa fucking hates you.
I don’t even know what the hell “Blitzen” is supposed to mean. Complete asshole. Not to be trusted.
What the fuck kind of name is Donner. Is Santa really from New England and trying to say “Donna”? Has this four-legged meat-bag been earmarked for the North Pole kebab shop? Why can’t anyone decide if he’s called Donner or the somehow even more awful “Donder”? Donder. The wild blue Donder. Get outta here.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for spreading love and joy at the most wonderful time of year. But instilling the spirit of a flying fat baby armed with a bow and arrow into a filthy ice beast is downright irresponsible. There is nothing enamouring about a crazed gift horse foaming at the mouth because it loves you so much. Away with it.
The only one that comes close to Dasher’s splendour. A fiery beast capable of great feats who regularly comes horribly unstuck because, like his namesake, he disintegrates at even the slightest resistance. Could’ve been great. Could’ve been a contender. Wound up an also-ran and a might’ve been. You truly hate to see it.
Vixen. Vixen. We’ve got one night to break into every child’s house on the entire planet earth, and we’re entrusting a ninth of that task to a snow horse given a name like that because I assume all it wants to do is fuck? Santa’s bringing the world’s supply of Christmas cheer across the globe and he’s got Vixen spouting a giant reindeer stiffy the entire way? Have a cold shower, mate. Christ.
The last thing anyone needs in a massive time crunch like Christmas is some goose in fancy shoes trying to hot step around the globe while the others have to sprint. You’ve got the entire rest of the year to make your toes all dainty, dickhead. Put your damn heels to the ground and get to work.
See above. Showboating wanker more concerned with do si do-ing than do si doing his fucking job properly.
The King. Mr. Reindeer Big Dick. Hulking lump of a thing. Could pull the bells clean out of Santa’s sack if he wanted to. They don’t talk often enough about just how insane circling the globe in one night is. That’s all Dasher. Hooves of fire. What he hauls those 8 other horned incompetents through each year is far beyond even a two-minute mile, let alone a three or four. It’s all well and good for kids to worship Santa and think he’s purely responsible for the military-like gift delivery each year. But really, that’s pure Dasher, baby. He’s a generational talent, and he should be worshipped as such.
The only good reindeer. Respect him.
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