Now it ain’t Crimmas without some goddamn singin’.

Funk’s best comic work ever.

We were somewhere over Vermont when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like “who’s driving this thing?” And suddenly there was a terrible roar and the sky in front of us filled with the nose of a jumbo jet. “Holy Jesus!” a voice screamed.

Then all was silence, the jet engines drowning out every noise until they passed over our heads. “Did you see that?” I said. “It was right there, coming to smash our skulls and you were…”

“I was what?” Santa growled, pulling his head back into the sleigh and wiping the vomit from his beard. “You filthy little elf, are you accusing me of something?” No point telling him, I thought. The jolly bastard will realize soon enough we’ve wandered into commercial air traffic lanes.