Elf Santa Quotes

On a busy day twenty-two thousand people come to visit Santa, and I was told that it is an elf's lot to remain merry in the face of torment and adversity. I promised to keep that in mind.

You've never heard of the Trickster King?" Puck asked, shocked. The girls shook their heads. "The Prince of Fairies? Robin Goodfellow? The Imp?" "Do you work for Santa?" Daphne asked. "I'm a fairy, not an elf!" Puck roared. "You really don't know who I am! Doesn't anyone read the classics anymore? Dozens of writers have warned about me. I'm in the most famous of all of William Shakespeare's plays." "I don't remember any Puck in Romeo and Juliet," Sabrina muttered, feeling a little amused at how the boy was reacting to his non-celebrity. "Besides Romeo and Juliet!" Puck shouted. "I'm the star of a Midsummer Night's Dream!" "Congratulation," Sabrina said flatly. "Never read it.

The woman in charge of costuming assigned us our outfits and gave us a lecture on keeping things clean. She held up a calendar and said, "Ladies, you know what this is. Use it. I have scraped enough blood out from the crotches of elf knickers to last me the rest of my life. And don't tell me, 'I don't wear underpants, I'm a dancer.' You're not a dancer. If you were a real dancer you wouldn't be here. You're an elf and you're going to wear panties like an elf.

Well, well, well,” Santa said once the elf had retreated. “Come and sit on my lap, little boy.” This Santa’s beard was real, and so was his hair. He wasn’t fucking around. “I’m not really a little boy,” I pointed out. “Get on my lap, then, big boy.” I walked up to him. There wasn’t much lap under his belly. And even though he tried to disguise it, as I went up there, I swear he adjusted his crotch. “Ho ho ho!” he chortled. I sat gingerly on his knee, like it was a subway seat with gum on it. “Have you been a good little boy this year?” he asked. I didn’t feel that I was the right person to determine my own goodness or badness, but in the interest of speeding along this encounter, I said yes. He actually wobbled with joy. “Good! Good! Then what can I bring you this Christmas?” I thought it was obvious. “A message from Lily,” I said. “That’s what I want for Christmas. But I want it right now.” “So impatient!” Santa lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. “But Santa does have a little something for you”—he shifted a little in his seat—“right under his coat. If you want to have your present, you’ll have to rub Santa’s belly.” “What?” I asked. He gestured with his eyes down to his stomach. “Go ahead.” I looked closely and saw the faint outline of an envelope beneath his red velvet coat. “You know you want it,” he whispered. The only way I could survive this was to think of it as the dare it was. Fuck off, Lily. You can’t intimidate me. I reached right under Santa’s coat. To my horror, I found he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. It was hot, sweaty, Geshy, hairy … and his belly was this massive obstacle, blocking me from the envelope. I had to lean over to angle my arm in order to reach it, the whole time having Santa laugh, “Oh ho ho, ho ho oh ho!” in my ear. I heard the elf scream, “What the hell!” and various parents start to shriek. Yes, I was feeling up Santa. And now the corner of the envelope was in my hand. He tried to jiggle it away from me, but I held tight and yanked it out, pulling some of his white belly hair with me. “OW ho ho!” he cried. I jumped o1 his lap. “Security’s here!” the elf proclaimed. The letter was in my hand, damp but intact. “He touched Santa!” a young child squealed.

Leo looked like a Latino Santa’s elf, with curly black hair, pointy ears, a cheerful, babyish face, and a mischievous smile that told you right away this guy should not be trusted around matches or sharp objects. His long, nimble fingers wouldn’t stop moving—drumming on the seat, sweeping his hair behind his ears, fiddling with the buttons of his army fatigue jacket. Either the kid was naturally hyper or he was hopped up on enough sugar and caffeine to give a heart attack to a water buffalo.

Yeah, and maybe Satan will repent and give up ruling the underworld to become an elf in Santa’s workshop.

What's going on here?" Miles demanded, pushing his way past the last of the stampeding throng. "And why is Santa worshiping that elf?

It’s all just a lot to take in, okay? What if your mom came up to you and said, ‘Oh, Cameron, by the way, your father is an elf from Santa’s workshop and I’m an alien from outer space, so that makes you—” “Something really messed up,” he cut in.

Tizzy squawked, and he bounced like a ball on the floor.  “I completely forgot; Santa said something more. He said that a book gives your very thoughts wings, That carry you off to see wonderful things, That lift you aloft, throughout time, throughout space To every era and every place!

One thing I learned over the years is that you have to love wholeheartedly when your loved ones are with you. I loved my parents. I still miss them every day of my life, and they’ve been gone for centuries. One thing they taught me is when you love, you love hard. You carry that with you always, even when the ones you love are no longer in this world. I don’t think I truly appreciated that until Dylan came into my world, and then you, but that’s two different types of love.

The air was so frigid that it almost hurt to breathe. They wrapped their arms around one another and thought of all the Christmas cracker jokes they could remember to distract themselves from the cold. What do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire? Frostbite. What do you call people who are afraid of Santa Claus? Claustrophobic. Why did Santa go into therapy? Because he suffered from low elf-esteem.

Nick began to plead with him. “You have a special power. You can stop time and change it. You can fix things so that she gets all the time she needs. You know you can do this…it’s just time.” “It’s just time?” Santa said. “Time’s the most precious gift we have. We have it in such abundance we never even know how precious it is until it’s gone. When we do finally realize we have no more of it, we’ll do almost anything to get it back. Life’s made of moments, Little Nick. It’s just fragments of time, like specks of gold in their value. That, my young friend, is why each moment should be treasured for what it represents. Because they’re finite…and they’re fragile. The power to give more time is something far greater than anything I can do.

The kids helped keep me together as well. One day they came in from playing after dinner, and I told them I was just completely exhausted by work and everything else. I said I’d take a shower as soon as I finished up; then we’d read and get ready for bed. They warmed up some towels in the dryer while I was showering and had them waiting for me when I was done. They made some hot coffee--not really understanding that coffee before bed isn’t the best strategy. But it was just the way I like it, and waiting on the bed stand. They turned down the bedcovers and even fluffed my pillows. Most of the time, their gifts are unintentional. Angel recently decided that, since the Tooth Fairy is so nice, someone should be nice to her. My daughter wrote a little note and left it under her pillow with some coins and her tooth. Right? The Tooth Fairy was very taken with that, and wrote a note back. “I’m not allowed to take money from the children I visit,” she wrote. “But I was so grateful. Thank you.” Then there was the time the kids were rummaging through one of Chris’s closets and discovered the Christmas Elf. Now everyone knows that the Christmas Elf only appears on Christmas Eve. He stays for a short while as part of holiday cheer, then magically disappears for the rest of the year. “What was he doing here!” they said, very concerned, as they brought the little elf to me. “And in Daddy’s closet!” I called on the special brain cells parents get when they give birth. “He must have missed Daddy so much that he got special permission to come down and hang out in his stuff. I wonder how long he’ll be with us?” Just until I could find another hiding place, of course. What? Evidence that Santa Claus doesn’t exist, you say? Keep it to yourself. In this house, we believe.

THE “THERE IS NO SANTA CLAUS” SPEECH Son/Daughter, Please sit down over here by me. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time, and I think you’re old enough now. I know you believe with all your heart that there is a person called Santa Claus who brings you presents every year if you are good. But the truth is that there is no Santa Claus. “Santa Claus” is really all the parents in the world, who love their children very much and buy them presents to show how much they love them. Your presents are not made by elves in a toy shop at the North Pole. There is no such thing as an elf; and the North Pole is actually one of the loneliest and most desolate places on Earth. The truth is that mom and dad buy all your presents at the mall, and we’re the ones who eat Santa’s cookies and drink Santa’s milk. Reindeer can’t fly, either. But don’t cry. This doesn’t mean that the spirit of Santa Claus isn’t real. “Santa Claus” is inside all of us, whenever we give presents to those that we love or those who are less fortunate. When you grow up, you can be Santa, too. Or the Easter Bunny. Or the Tooth Fairy.

Santa in one hand, an elf in the other. She glanced at the mute stereo and shot Andi a look. “Which do you think?” she asked and held up the hats. “Go with the reindeer,” she said. “Santa is overdone and if you dress as an elf,

from Santa truly puzzled him. What

Santa is like a queen bee. All the elves are his drones, who exist to feed him royal jelly, which I guess would be milk and cookies. If an elf escapes and eats royal cookies, it will turn into another Santa. That’s what all those mall Santas are. They’re trying to start their own festive colonies.

Still, as I drift to sleep, I hug my pillow tightly, dreaming of Jonah lying next to me.

I think the purpose of team-building is that it’s cooperative and everyone approaches it with an open mind and a good outlook, thereby keeping up morale,” he says meaningfully, dipping his chin and lifting his brows. “I suppose we could take turns picking said activity if that would help? I’d be happy to visit your coven, write up surveys, stand outside of Kindergarten classrooms with signs telling them that Santa’s a hoax and your mom decapitated your Elf on the Shelf … Throw M&M’s at them while they cry. You know, whatever it is that you like to do for fun.

An elf in SantaLand is one thing, an elf in Sportswear is something else altogether.

I’m Smelfy, probably Santa’s top elf. And this is Bob, Santa’s backup-backup-spare flightless reindeer.

You are everything I’ve ever hoped for, Drew, more than I ever believed I could hope for.” I reach up and wipe a tear that’s slowly making its way down his cheek. “I thought I knew what love was. I was wrong. Only when you came into my life did I truly understand it, feel it. Thank you for giving me something I’ve always longed for.” “What is that, Santa?” “Forever.

Nick got roped into playing Santa at the old mall, and Hunter was his elf.

What kind of Santa titty-twister hell hole is this?” I shout at the elf’s face.

In a pie chart of Nick’s personality, Dad Jokes would be, like, seven of the eight slices. He responds to every text in our family group chat with a GIF from a comedic film that is usually Elf: Buddy the Elf jumping up and down, yelling, “Santa’s coming!” if you’re excited; Buddy the Elf bent over a rabid raccoon—“Does somebody need a hug?”—if you’re sad about something. He’ll make the occasional exception, though. Like, if you texted him that your plane had been hijacked, he’d probably send you the scream face from Home Alone.

My last job had been as an elf at Macy’s. “Personal assistant” was how I phrased it, hoping he wouldn’t ask for whom. “Uh—Santa?

Yes.” Santa admitted. “We feed it to the world. Every piece of candy you ever got in a stocking… it came from an elf’s bum.

This place is just like the North Pole, except it smells like mushrooms and everyone looks like they want to hurt me." Buddy the Elf

friend and business partner, Eva, appeared from the storage room wearing antlers and holding two hats: a Santa in one hand, an elf in the other. She glanced at the mute stereo and shot Andi a look. “Which do you think?” she asked and held up the hats. “Go with the reindeer,” she said. “Santa is overdone and if you dress as an elf, people might get the wrong idea about Santa’s little helper.” With Eva’s tall, curvy body, pretty much anything she wore

The jolly old elf’s nose was red, but not from cold — rather, from the brutality of a dozen boxes of Kleenex. Mucus flowed freely down his cheeks, and mixed with tears of agony. She folded her arms, pursed her lips, and declared: “You’re not going out this week.

The crucified figure had not been idle. A series of elaborate twists activated a cunning mechanism; the base of the cross blew apart, revealing a winding metal spring at the base. At the same time, there was a whir of machinery, a grinding sound of metal against metal, and a series of spindly steel tubes emerged from the head and arms of the cross; and as the jolly old elf grunted and arched his back, the giant laser-mounted pogo stick heaved into the air, leaving in its wake waves of devastation, and a merry, menacing cry of “Ho-ho-ho!

I have never tried to walk through a mall in the Christmas season dressed like a jolly old elf. You might as well dress up like a pork chop and walk into an alley full of starving dogs.

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Down the entire length of the waiting line, as if Annie’s fit was a kind of wildfire, other children began to scream and shake. A few parents had to drag their possessed children away, giving up their places, which caused the children to scream even more. The people who remained in line looked at Caleb and Camille and Annie as if they had personally ruined Christmas for all time. It was, Caleb realized, amazing. “Hurry up and take the photo,” Caleb said to the bored elf and there was a flash of bulbs, the click of the captured image, and Caleb quickly ran toward Santa, plucked the child out of the terrified old man’s lap, and hugged his daughter, feeling the radiating warmth of her unhappiness now happily in his possession

It all began when Santa’s helpers demanded Universal Elf Care.

Ooh!” Willy pipes up. “Maybe he'll write a story about Santa and Mrs. Claus getting caught with their pants down with other people. If we get lucky, maybe he'll kill-” “Don't finish that sentence, elf.” “Randy, you're such a spoilsport. You can't say you haven't conjured up that scenario in your big head a time or a dozen. Continue. Maybe I'll write that story.” “No, you won't. Your idea of a good story is nothing but sex, sex, and more sex. You'd never make it through writing a chapter because you'd have to stop and jerk off a half dozen times.” “Ew! Not about Santa and Mrs. Claus. Yuck,” Willy comes back at him with a sour look on his face. “That's not even funny, Randy.

I may be an elf,” I said with a smile that never failed to charm people, “but I'm not a stupid elf. I've got a college degree and everything.” “In what?” the little girl asked. “Dumb elfery?” I tried not to snort, but even I admit that was funny. “No, actually the courses in dumb elfery were full so I had to take the ones in cute elfery instead.” I pulled back and did a little spin, making sure the bells on my hat and shoes jingled. “So, did I deserve that degree or what? I graduated with honors and everything.” Emma did a circle with her finger, motioning for me to turn around again. I did and when I turned back, she was tapping her chin. “I think you should probably ask for your money back.

Willy looks between Randy and me for a few seconds. “Holy candy canes. You two could almost pass for brothers.” I lean against the bar. “Not quite. I'm a couple of inches shorter, and I don't have the muscle your reindeer has.” “It's the long black hair.” He points at Randy. “I have a thing for long black hair. Hot damn, two hotties like you in Santa's Village at the same time? The elves wouldn't get any work done. They'd be too busy staring and jerk-” “Enough, elf,” Randy stops him.

... I've never met a magical creature before. All I know is what I've heard in stories. Father Christmas, for instance, with the elves who make the toys." Tergil was impassive. "We relate a similar tale," he replied. "It is called Santa Clause and his slave workforce". "Oh," said Thorpe. "It is an ancient story," said the elf, "about the perils of trusting strangers. It does have a happy ending, though. The evil Clause is beaten to death with hunks of reindeer meat.

Aunt Bella comes at me, sweeping me into a giant hug and cutting off my retort. “Daney-Waney-Yuletide,” she coos. Damn it. Whoever let my mother give me that middle name needs their ass kicked. Yuletide. As though I’m Santa’s favorite elf, destined to save Christmas in vivid Claymation.