The Great Christmas Eve Sleigh Heist

Christmas Eve, age 28. Snow was falling, lights twinkling, and the air smelled like cinnamon and pine. I was home for the holidays, expecting a calm evening with family. But calm isn’t really my style.

It all began when my niece tugged on my sleeve, eyes wide as saucers. “Uncle Josh, Santa’s sleigh broke down at the mall parking lot!”

I laughed, assuming this was her latest ploy to extend bedtime. Then my sister chimed in: “Actually, she’s kind of right. The guy playing Santa’s stranded—battery died in his truck.”

This was no ordinary mall Santa. He’d been hired to surprise the neighborhood kids by delivering their pre-arranged gifts. Without him, dozens of parents would be left explaining why Santa skipped their house. Cue holiday meltdown.

“We can’t let this happen,” I declared, channeling my inner Clark Griswold. My family exchanged wary glances; they’d seen where my plans usually led. “Relax,” I assured them. “I’ve got this.”

Grabbing my keys and a box of hastily packed cookies for bribes, I sped to the mall. Santa was leaning against his lifeless truck, looking like he’d aged 20 years overnight.

“Santa,” I said, “get in. We’re taking my car.”

“Your car?” he asked, eyeing my sports coupe, which was about as sleigh-like as a pogo stick.

“Look, it’s either this or Christmas is canceled,” I shot back. Entitlement mode: activated.

Twenty minutes later, we’d crammed the gifts, Santa’s sack, and the man himself into my car. My backseat looked like an elf’s workshop had exploded. The plan was simple: I’d drive, Santa would deliver, and we’d save Christmas. Easy, right?

Not quite.

First stop, the Johnsons’ house. Santa knocked; no one answered. “Try the window,” I whispered, as if this was a covert mission. Santa grumbled but complied, tossing the gift through an open window. It landed with a thud—and an ominous crash.

“Move! Next house!” I yelled, pretending not to hear the barking dog inside.

By the third stop, Santa was muttering about “emergency pay” and how “this wasn’t in the job description.” I shoved a cookie in his hand. “You’re doing great,” I lied.

Things went sideways at the McAllister’s. Their Christmas lights—which could probably be seen from space—cast a suspiciously bright glow on our operation. Just as Santa was about to drop off the gift, a kid flung open the door, screaming, “IT’S SANTA!”

Santa froze. I leapt into action, honking the horn. “Santa’s in a rush, kid! Go back inside or he’ll miss the other houses!”

The kid stared, slack-jawed, before retreating. “Close one,” I muttered as Santa clambered back into the car.

By the end of the night, we were both exhausted but triumphant. Every gift delivered, no kids traumatized (probably), and Santa safely returned to his truck. As I dropped him off, he handed me a candy cane and said, “You’re on the naughty list for reckless driving, but thanks.”

Back home, my family greeted me with cheers and eggnog. “How’d it go?” my sister asked.

“Let’s just say Santa owes me one,” I replied, collapsing onto the couch. The lesson? Sometimes entitlement isn’t about taking; it’s about giving—with flair, of course.

And that, dear reader, is how I saved Christmas Eve, one chaotic gift drop at a time.