Consider this a warning. It is not safe to eat the fruitcake just before going to bed. The Ghost of Christmas Sideways WHEN THE GHOST APPEARED, Kris Kringle was humping an elf. The centuries-old oak bed was creaking and groaning like a whale with indigestion, as Kringle pounded furiously away. The headboard banged against the panelled wall with every thrust. Kringle’s red pants were down around his ankles, so were his silk boxers. The flabby pink mounds of flesh that were his buttocks shook like two great bags of jelly; they looked like Christmas puddings, all blotchy and purple with veins. “Kriiiinnngllllle. ...” the sepulchral voice repeated ominously, this time accompanied by the rattle of rusty old chains. The fat man didn’t hear it—or maybe he didn’t want to hear it. He kept grunting with lust, again and again, while beneath him, the elf—almost smothered by his weight—shrieked in ecstasy or discomfort. It was impossible to tell. “Kringle! Goddammit! Stop that now!”
