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Fionia's article: http://www.erepublik.com/en/article/christmas-writers-039-contest-1928590/1/20

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So there I was, sitting in the Oval Office anteroom. There was an enormous blather emanating from the room; I heard crashing chairs, flying bears, and amorphous hairs. But enough about Jude Connors while high. I got up and peeked into the room; what I saw was incredible in itself.


What can cannabis NOT DO?

There, before me, was a truly yuletide sight: Rainy Sunday was stringing christmas lights about the office; Jude and Pfeiffer were drunkenly attempting to mount the Christmas tree... on a stand. Both greased, and naked. In the corner was Artela, slowly stripping off her clothing in front of Oblige. Now, the sight of any woman is enough to get me off, but Artela? My word.



The next few moments changed the room irrevocably; the red phone rang. Pfeiffer groped for the phone, as is his nature when important things happen and he wants to be a part of it. The Soviet premier was on the line, whining about land-swapping into Hungary because he needed to cause some Christmas murder.



Around this time, Jude had sobered up enough to blearily look outside. There appeared to be a sleigh and reindeer outside. He frantically pointed and gesticulated, but to no avail. No one saw the tranquilizer dart crack through the window and into his cannabis-infused brain.



Me, in my infinite wisdom, immediately took cover. Almost instantly, Mr Woldy and eight Swedes disguised (doesn't take much effort) as reindeer. As the pig-disgusting Swedes secured the premises, Evry ran into the room and half-way informed everyone that the Secret Service had been compromised and a ONE incursion was underway. Mr Woldy gave him a vicious backhand that sent him spinning into the tree, and he groaned as the pig-disgusting Swedes abused his body.



Now, I was hiding underneath the desk, covered in piss, but grateful that I hadn't eaten asparagus. I must have sat there for over an hour, as the Swedes laid back and liberated Jude's secret stash of dope. Mr Woldy started making calls, taking names, and chewing bubble gum as the United States government came crashing down before our eyes. Oblige, in his infinite wisdom, hadn't logged off the CIA server and Woldy was having a great time destroying everything. It didn't help that he was sitting upon the desk I took refuge under, and every so often his boisterous laughs and enormous buttocks caused creaking. Eventually Artela lambasted Woldy for such a heinous and cruel takeover. Woldy merely laughed and undid his pants, grinning devilishly.

As he neared the defenseless lass, one of the Swedes sat up, and, sounding an awful lot like Jewitt, made some funny jokes and handed out a few battle hero medals to his friends. He walked over to the door and unlocked it, undoing his reindeer attire in one swift motion. Truly, it was Jewitt Claus. The Secret Service flowed in like children from the member of the immortal Scrabman. Woldy and his revolting Swedes were subdued. Jewitt Claus waltzed over to the Christmas tree, righted it, and placed a picture of his face atop it.



In the booming voice that won the hearts of millions of little fangirls everywhere, Jewitt Claus banished Woldy and the entire Swedish race to his sweatshops in Karnataka. Feeling my way out of the desk, riddled with piss and feces, I started longingly into the eyes of Jewitt Claus, who these days many had forsaken as just a myth. He looked at me briefly, and his eyes sang the songs of a thousand screaming Macedonians. A snap of his fingers, and I was totally clean. Another snap, totally naked. As he walked closer, my eyes grew continually dimmer, my head heavier, and my weiner longer. As Jewitt Claus came upon me, I fell down, and above me was Rainy Sunday, happily hanging the mistletoe.