December 21, 2005

# 17

I make it a rule to consider every job that's offered to me. Being in the upper echelon of live entertainers, I rarely sneeze while considering work. Some of you may deem this as bordering on desperation. Those of you with that thought in mind should let me quell your desire for judgemental superiority by stating that I don't accept every job offered to me as many people I deal with are freaks in need of serious counselling and/or shock treatment, though I'm unsure which course of action best fits which ailment. I'm not strapped for cash either as I was when I was at primary school; when I had to rely on my parents for food being inside my lunch box whenever it was opened and a roll of toilet paper being in my duffel coat pocket for when the school's loos were ill equipped to handle emergencies of the number two calibre.

That said, I look back at the last two days of my life in moderate confusion, wondering how self-immolation didn't figure in the equation. Why? Because I performed back-to-back gigs as Santa Claus at two kindergartens in a neighbouring city. Perhaps, deep down, I'm a community man. Or fond of torture.

So there I was, entering my first kindy in many a year with finesse usually reserved for my VHS and DVD performances. My cravat was at half mast and my fleece lined trousers were keeping the important parts warm when the first combination of miniaturised fists greeted them from well below my line of sight. The kamikaze welcome was enough to send this consummate professional tumbling to the deck, moaning for mercy in octaves rare for a man of my public stature. I knew war had been declared by a mystic prophet of at least thirty years my junior and that northerly winds and the call of nature would help me find the child responsible.

I picked myself up, dusted microscopic skin particles from my suit and set forth in search of the teachers' room for a hot cup of java and sympathy, which weren't forthcoming. Sipping on the complimentary hot green tea I concluded that being the only man in the house beyond the age of five had certain drawbacks. I accepted my fate; unless my radar was in perfect working order, before day's end I would be rendered impotent by a three-foot entity with a vocabulary that could match any teenage parrot.

I discovered that the best mode of survival was invisibility which was achieved by hiding behind potted plants and various items of furniture: see no evil, hear no evil, as it were.

When it was time, staff showed me to the changing quarters where undersized red and white trousers and matching v-neck top awaited. The false white beard, moustache and $2 Santa hat were ideally suited in signalling completion of the metamorphosis. I fumbled two pillows down the front of the trousers, tightened the belt, adjusted the family jewels, checked my breath and ventured behind enemy lines.

Everything was going smoothly for about three minutes: ho-ho-hoing took place, waves, hand-shakes and well wishes for Christmas were extended and songs were sung at world-class standard that Eurovision would have been proud of. Then a youngster from jurisdictions beyond my periphery tugged the false beard completely loose as omniscient moans of "Andy Kaufman" filled the hall after the fact.

Pandemonium broke loose as kids began throwing chairs and tantrums; their confidence in adults had been breached beyond repair and I was the primary target for revenge. Spit, sweat, boogers, pee; essentially anything that wasn't nailed down, was hurled my way. Not even hiding behind a female teacher half my size could prevent the proverbial shit from hitting the fan. As the woman I never knew lost consciousness, I ducked underneath the curtain and ran for the emergency exit, disrobing to my underwear and six-day growth as I wheezed and implored my legs to coordinate at a greater rate of speed.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I was outfoxed and outclassed by three to five-year-old children that day. I'm even less ashamed to admit that my bodyguard, Bret Michaels [pictured right], accompanied me to the second day's festivities, which went off without consultation of my gastroenterologist.

Needless to say, Christmas can lick parts of me usually seen by equipment bearing half flush and full flush qualities.


Ultra Toast Mosha God said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Ultra Toast Mosha God said...

I tried one of these gigs once, but quickly realised that the children cannot be fooled, and are likely to ask difficult questions about whether their smacked up mommy can have a new daddy for christmas.

My answers usually revolve around Brett Michaels or Ricky Martin accepting initially, but then refusing because they remember they hate children, or rather more specifically, the current child in question.

This usually directs such awkward questions towards the aforementioned parties so that I can skulk off to the medicine cabinet for a partaay.

Sometimes it does not work and I have to take the child to the cabinet with me.

And THAT is why Shania Twain never rebooked me.

MJ said...

Hey! Why did you delete a perfectly fine comment from my blog? Are you erasing the other from the blogspot memory forever?

I would kill to have Brett Michaels as a security guard. Think of how much free pot I could get! (then turn around and sell)

Saathiya said...

I must say, though, that they are really insulting children's intelligence these days. I went to TTP a couple of days ago and they had 2 santas sitting almost within sight of each other. What the?

Aminah said...

Did anyone really believe that Santa has brothers/uncles/nephews that let little kids sit on their knees in the spirit of Christmas crap and that's why Santa can be simultaneously in David Jones AND Myer AND somewhere in the North Pole ordering Neptunian Elves around crap I was fed as a child? Maybe it was just me then....

Kaufman said...

UTMG: It pleases me to know I'm not the only one who has expeienced difficulties with midgets. Shania Twain, a cabinet and a gag = plenty of good times. :)

MJ!: So glad you came by for a visit. I was wondering what a man could do to get your attention - short of undressing and twirling bags of ganja from the hip. Bret's shade of lippy scared the kids, though they were fascinated by his manicured nails.

Saathiya: Kids are smarter than any parent cares to admit. They'll have a member in parliament before the century's over.

Aminah: I found out about the magical powers of the dollar at a very early age. It's why I did the two gigs in the first instance. Did you see the episode of The Simpsons when Homer was a Santa? He was paid $13 after taxes. Mine was a private gig, so I wasn't covered by medical insurance; a distinct downside to the experience.

Captain Berk said...

I never have to do this because there are no kids on my ship.

Thank god.

Having Spock sat on your knee asking for 'infinite logic' is not much better.

Last year he had to make do with a packet of fruit pastilles.