Best of Puffie - pg. 3
A Sad-Sack Tale
Dear Sue, I have been lurking on the BC list
since I was unexpectedly diagnosed with 
infiltrating
ductal carcinoma in May, but I have hesitated to post publicly for fear
of being ridiculed. I had considered writing privately to Musa Mayer, because
she seems like a wise and mature soul. But I decided to write to you instead
because you have made a fool of yourself so often that I thought you would
relate to me if I appeared ridiculous.
And why am I so worried about being mocked?
Well, to put it bluntly, I am Santa Claus. Can you just see the headlines
if the news gets out? "SANTA'S TIT -- THE TRUE STORY," or "NORTH
POLE
TURNED INTO HOOTERS FRANCHISE." Oh, the humiliation! I wanted to join
a support group in Juneau, but I was afraid I would be recognized. The
list has been my salvation, but up to this point I have never directly
asked for help. But now I am desperate. The most important day in my work
year is fast approaching, and the stress is really bumming me out. I may
survive the cancer, but I'm not sure I'll survive Christmas Eve. Here are
just a few of my headaches:
-- I had a modified radical mastectomy on July 1. And now, every time I go on an inspection of the toy factory, all the elves stare at my chest instead of my face. In the past, an elf or two would occasionally call me a fat ass, but that was better than hearing a tittering little Munchkin refer to me as a big boob. This is really undermining my authority. Why can't they just see that I am more than my breasts?
-- I have been on CAF since the summer, and
it really sucks! I have become so traumatized by the Adriamycin that I
can no longer stomach (literally) the color red. My wife made me a new
green suit, but it makes me look like a puked-out grinch. I told Rudolph
that the red nose 
would
have to go, and he quit in a huff. The only saving grace is that I can
light up the night sky all on my own because I managed to persuade my doctors
to let me have post-mastectomy radiation to the chest wall. (Thank you,
John Bonine.)
-- I lost all my hair 25 days after my first
treatment. I bought three wigs, but they all itched like hell. So finally
I just said screw it. I put them in the Christmas tree snow recycler, and
now I just go bald. I wore a fake beard for awhile, but my eyes watered
so much from the Cytoxan 
that
all the glue washed out. So I recycled the beard too, and now I look like
a puked-out and plucked grinch.
-- I made a list, and I checked it twice, but then I got chemobrain and
now I can't find the list. The kids will be so pissed!
-- I got lymphedema in my right arm, so now I can't carry heavy objects on that side. I am practicing balancing the sack on my left shoulder, but every time I start down the practice chimney, I either fall off the roof, or drop all the toys in the snow. I have already ruined13 Tickle Me Elmo dolls, and my butt feels like a punching bag.
-- A few months ago, a nice man named Robert
told the list that drinking milk causes cancer. So just what am I supposed
to do with all the millions of glasses of milk that are left out for 
me?
Feed them to the reindeer? And now I find out that sugar causes cancer,
so there go the cookies, too. Mrs. Claus always packs me a thermos of coffee,
but how in the hell am I supposed to manage an enema in a sleigh flying
through the air at warp speed in zero-degree weather?
-- I'm embarrassed to admit it, but my sex life is shot. The chemo really does a number on the libido, doesn't it? I know that communication with your SO is the key to a good sexual relationship, but Mrs. Claus just starts to cry every time I try to bring the whole thing up. I am desperate for some tips. AstroGlide isn't working.
So that's the story, Sue. I don't *look* like
Santa Claus and I don't *feel* like Santa Claus, but 
the
world still expects a jolly old guy with all his body parts. I am in a
pretty pickle, aren't I? I just cannot afford to screw up my Christmas
gig. We are living on a shoestring here, and I will have to resort to layoffs
if anything else goes wrong. Do you have any suggestions for me, any words
of comfort? At the rate I'm going, this year I'll have to replace "Ho,
ho, ho!" with "Woe, woe, woe!"
Santa Claus
P.S. I hope *somebody* still believes in Santa.
on
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