Humor: Santa Claus contemplates his navel

Santa Claus contemplates his navel

"Now tell me," said the psychiatrist after settling his patient down on the couch, "How long have you thought you were really Santa Claus?"

"Santa Claus? My name is George!" snapped the man. "What makes you think I think I am Santa Claus?"

"Er, w-w-well," stammered Dr Lint. "I don't get a lot of jolly, fat guys with white beards and red suits in here who don't think they are Santa Claus."

"I am NOT jolly," barked the man, sitting up. "I feel very stressed."

"Um, yes, I can sense that," said the doctor. This was already shaping as one of his more unusual consultations since moving into the High Street premises, sandwiched between the dry cleaners and the pet grooming service.

And I DON'T think I am Santa Claus," said the man.

"Okay, calm down," said the doctor, putting a hand on the man's shoulder and motioning him to lie down again. "Can you tell me then why you are dressed like that?"

"Oh this?" said the man, holding up his left arm and pinching at his robes. "I'm on my break."

"From the North Pole?" asked the doctor.

"No, from the department store down the road," said the patient. "It's my job. I dress up as Santa and little kids sit on my knee and tell me what they want for Christmas. They ask for something extravagant and it embarrasses their parents into buying at least something from the department store to shut them up."

"I see," said the psychiatrist, who was skilled in gently extracting information from patients. "And this strategy troubles your conscience?"

"Gawd no," said the Santa. "The salesman in me supports the sell-at-any-cost principle. I'd rather work in the lingerie section, but that's a personal preference. I'm not sure that the Santa Claus strategy would work too well there - though I am willing to give it a go if the young women customers are willing to sit on my knee."

"So, it's a sexual fantasy problem then?" asked the doctor.

"Don't be silly," said the man. "I was only joking."

"Sick of children pulling your long white beard, perhaps?"

"No, I'm getting used to it."

"Sick of children being scared, instead of happy to see you."

"Hey, I can handle it. I'm a grandfather. My kids have kids and we don't always see eye to eye."

"Sick of children throwing up on you?"

"Hasn't happened. Well, not in a very big way."

"WHAT THEN? asked the doctor, coming to the end of his patience.

"Er, well, it all started when my wife Beryl saw an advertisement in the newspaper recruiting Santa Clauses," said the man. "Despite my protests, she said I'd be perfect for the job."

"What protests?" asked the doctor.

"Oh, you know. The usual stuff. I'm 66, overweight, bearded and the only job I ever had was as a salesman. We didn't really need the money so I think she just wanted to get me out of the house."

"Aaaah, you feel rejected then?" asked the doctor.

"No, I've come to enjoy getting out of the house," said the Santa.

"Well, what is the problem then?" shouted Dr Lint, exasperated.

"Ah, it's like this," said the Santa solemnly, rolling back his red top to expose his enormous stomach.

"Since I've been wearing this outfit, look, I have been getting red lint inside my belly button every day. Is there anything you can do for me? Can you clean it?

Dr Lint looked the patient in the eyes and shook his head, trembling with anger.

"Clean it? I'm a psychiatrist, man, not a belly button cleaner!"

"A psychiatrist!" said the man, equally taken aback. "Nobody told me you were a shrink!
"I only came in here to get some advice about cleaning my fluffy red garment! Crikey, no wonder I thought this was the most unusual dry cleaners' shop I have ever visited!"

Resignation letter from Santa
Dear boys and girls,
I know this is very short notice, but I wish to tender my resignation.
This is not a decision I have taken lightly.
But I feel you have given me no alternative.

A letter to Santa
I hope you remember me, Santa?
I used to live in Ronneby Road, Newnham, in Tasmania but I want you to know that I had very little to do with putting that bucket of porridge in a big pot at the bottom of the chimney.
I guess you have dried out now.

Poles apart: Santa goes somewhere different after all his work is done
Santa Claus could hardly believe his eyes.
He had been looking forward to his vacation in the tropics for so long, it was like a dream.
He stood on the tarmac in his colourful board shorts, T-shirt and floppy hat and surveyed his new surroundings.

NB: I called this site Dunno because I kept drawing a blank when I had to put a name to it