Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

“Look, Tanner!” says the boy’s mom. “It’s your new elf!”

And she starts to read him the book I came with, which explains my background. Before she can finish the intro, though, Tanner says, “Fuck you.” Just curses his mother out, right to her face. So I watch the mom to see how she’ll discipline her son. But she just smiles and says, “You better behave, or the elf will tell Santa!” And I realize, oh my God, there’s no parental discipline in this house. And this woman has brought me here to try to instill some order, but it’s obviously too little too late. And as I’m thinking this, Tanner picks up the book and throws it against the wall. And his mom, in a singsong voice, is, like, “Pick it up, or Santa will find out you’re naughty.” And Tanner says, “Fuck Santa.” And the mom goes off to make him more Hot Pockets. And that’s when I know I’m in for a long December.

So this kid’s only ten, but he’s already masturbating. And when I say masturbating, I don’t mean “exploring his body.” I mean full-fledged, to-completion masturbation. His walls are plastered with Playboy centerfolds. He also has unrestricted Internet access and the sites he visits are truly twisted. Like, “time to destroy your hard drive” twisted. At one point, while masturbating, he looks right at me. I try my best to ignore him, but there’s nothing I can do. I’m physically incapable of turning my head or closing my eyes. It’s the most disturbing experience of my life.

That night, I fly to the North Pole to report Tanner’s behavior to you-know-who. And I’m, like, “Listen, this kid is naughty. There’s no need for further research.”

And Santa’s, like, “Just stay on his shelf through Christmas, maybe he’ll turn a corner, ho ho ho.” And I’m, like, “This kid is a psychopath.” And Santa laughs and says, “Nice try, Buttercup. But you’re not getting the holidays off.” And then he leaves for his next meeting. And I’m, like, oh my God, I’ve gotta go back there.

The next day, Tanner’s friends come over. And when they see me on the shelf, they start making fun of him and calling him a baby. So Tanner, to prove he’s tough or whatever, decides that the thing to do is to shove my head up his ass. Literally, just pulls down his pants and sticks my head inside his ass. It happens so fast, it takes me a moment to realize what’s going on. By the time he extracts me, his friends are all laughing hysterically, like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever seen. Then they all take out iPads and play single-shooter video games in silence.

After three hours of this madness, one of the kids says he’s bored. So Tanner grabs me and I think, Oh fuck, something really bad’s about to happen. Sure enough, the next thing I know I’m being tossed into the microwave. The stench of Hot Pockets is thick in the air. Tanner hits a button and I start to cook from the inside out. My face turns to goo. My feet catch on fire. It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt, but part of me feels relieved. My scars are no longer invisible; maybe now there will finally be some discipline, some modicum of justice? Wishful thinking. When Tanner’s mom finds me, she just plops me right back on Tanner’s shelf without comment. How’s that for parenting?

That night, I go up Tanner’s ass again, even though it’s just the two of us. What started as a joke has become part of his masturbation ritual. I realize that this is how it’s going to be from now on. Every time he masturbates, I’m going to be involved. And there are still twelve days until Christmas.

Up at the North Pole, I try to get another meeting with Santa. But his schedule is completely booked. As I’m flying back to Tanner’s house, I pass Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And he’s, like, “I hear you’re going through a hard time. Listen, we’ve all been there.” And I’m, like, are you fucking kidding me? You’re going to equate what I’m going through with being “excluded from games”? Fuck you. I’m inside an ass three times a day, and if it’s washed, it’s a Christmas miracle.

I get through December by mentally leaving my body. I just learn to disassociate. When Tanner is doing his thing, I’m not there. I’m in a different place. I’m at the beach.

Finally, on Christmas Eve, Santa calls in all the elves, from all the shelves, for the annual naughty-or-nice meeting. Some of my colleagues have mixed reports about their kids (they’ve witnessed bad manners and unmade beds), but everyone recommends that their boys and girls receive presents. Then it’s my turn. I filibuster for over an hour. I describe every crime in disgusting, horrible detail. By the time I’m finished, half the elves are in tears. Sugarplum is in the bathroom puking. Santa’s white as a sheet. He hasn’t given a child coal in over a thousand years, but now he’s got no choice.

“So,” I say triumphantly, “how many lumps does Tanner get?”

Santa averts his eyes.

“The thing is,” he says, “I kind of already got him a Play-Station 4.”

And I’m, like, “What do you mean? It’s not even Christmas yet.”

And Santa explains that he delivers most presents in advance and hides them inside parents’ closets to save himself travel time on the big day.

And I’m, like, “Are you telling me that the most hellish period of my life was completely in vain?”

But Santa’s already off to his next meeting.

Since then, I’ve been going around to high schools like this one, sharing my story. I hope you learned something today about perseverance. At the very least, I hope I’ve dissuaded you from becoming an Elf on the Shelf, if that was a career path you were considering. Thank you to Mrs. Gonzales for organizing this assembly. You’ve all been wonderful. Merry Christmas.

Mr. and Mrs. Carr had been dead for several months, but like most ghosts, they thought they were still living. Their apartment hadn’t been sold yet. And so they retained dominion over their darkened, dusty duplex on Seventy-Eighth and Park.

Their days were somewhat frustrating. The heat no longer worked. And Beto, their favorite doorman, had grown unaccountably rude, ignoring their hola s and refusing to open the door for them. In many ways, though, life continued as it had before their deaths. The New York Times still arrived, occasionally, due to a computer error. And while the Carrs were unable to flip through the pages, due to the incorporeity of their fingers, they could scan the headlines, which was all they’d really done while still alive.

The Carrs rarely left the Upper East Side, finding the rest of the city disorienting. But, luckily, their neighborhood was packed with ghosts like them. On Sundays, they liked to host the Benders, a witty couple they had known since law school. The Benders had died in a helicopter explosion but were otherwise in perfect health.

“I’m sorry it’s so chilly,” Mrs. Carr said as she air-kissed Mrs. Bender.

“It’s the same at our place,” she said between shivers. “It’s Con Ed, they’re the worst.”

Mr. Bender gestured at his wife’s trembling rump.

“Look!” he said. “She’s twerking!”

All the ghosts laughed.

“You know, that’s a word now,” said Mrs. Bender. “In The Oxford English Dictionary . A verb—‘to twerk’!”

“I read about that,” said Mr. Carr. “In the New York Times. ”

Mr. Bender sardonically raised his eyebrows.

“Beethoven gave us ‘Ode to Joy,’ Wagner gave us The Ring Cycle, and now Miley Cyrus has given us… ‘le twerk.’ ”

The ghosts all laughed some more.

“There probably won’t even be music soon,” said Mrs. Carr. “If it’s not an ‘app,’ what’s the point, right?”