Elfistad: A Seasonal Call To Action

I've been concerned about Elves lately.

You know, those little people who work for Old St. Nick. I've never actually seen an Elf in person, mind you. Most of my knowledge is second hand from those quaint Rankin-Bass Christmas specials made in the 60's and early 70's. Granted my source material is somewhat tainted. Most of those shows no longer air because they were later deemed politically incorrect. If you don't know what I mean, just YouTube the stop action animation version of "The Little Drummer Boy." It didn't exactly cast our Arab brethren in a favorable light. And that pissed off Casey Kasem, who's Lebanese. For someone who spent most of his career giving voice to Shaggy on the Scooby Doo cartoons and dedicating treacly Journey power ballads on behalf of lovelorn fourteen-year-olds on The American Top 40, Kasem is well connected in Tinseltown. And that's why you haven't seen "The Little Drummer Boy" on TV for the past two and a half decades.

But let's get back to Elves. I've always wondered what Elves did the other ten months of the year. Cause in November and December, when all the Christmas specials air, they were always shown working. Let's face it, Santa runs a company town. He has a major manufacturing operation on his hands. He needs cheap labor. He gets Elves. And Santa works them non-stop. Remember the Elves feeding packages hand-to-hand to fill Santa's sleigh, like a sand bag brigade in a sleepy, rain-soaked hamlet on the Mississippi? The work is constant; regimented; an assemply line -- kinda like a GM plant, only without the Union. Santa needs those Elves too. I don't remember ever seeing Santa actually make a toy in any of those shows. It's the Elves. Santa's just a glorified FEDEX guy with food issues. But somehow he's harnessed the artistry and industriousness of the entire Elf community.

Santa calls the shots. At the North Pole, if you're born an Elf...you work for Santa. I mean, where else are they gonna work? I know its tough to swallow, but even I don't think Starbucks has yet opened their North Pole franchise. Even the mere suggestion of pursuing alternative employment marks you as an outcast. Rudolph's pal Hermy shows some entrepreneurial spirit...wants to hawk dental floss to other Elves...and whammo -- he's on the first ice shelf to the land of misfit toys (By the way, I don't know about you, but I always thought the idea of a squirt gun that shoots grape jelly was pretty cool).

Who am I kidding? We all know what the Elves are doing the other ten months of the year. They are still working for Santa. It's twenty-four/seven, baby. What was I thinking. You ever run into an Elf on vacation? Ever see an Elf skiing in Vail, digging their nubby toes into the sand in Boca, or placing twenty on red at the Bellagio? No! Cause Elves don't get vacations.

I'm not even convinced Elves are getting paid at all! Think about it. The only clothing you ever see an Elf wear is the Elf uniform. And they all wear basically the same uniform. You think they buy that stuff a Forever 21 or H&M? Gap for Elves? Of course not. I guarantee you even Elves wouldn't dress like that unless they were forced to. Those goofy hats which only accentuate their pointy ears; those humiliating curly-toed shoes which only accentuate their pointy ears; the unsettling combinations of red and green which -- well, you get my drift. The only people with more embarrassing uniforms are these poor Food Court schleps at Hot Dog On A Stick.

And where do Elves live? I don't recall seeing a little Elf town anywhere near Santa's estate. There probably tucked away in some Elf barrio in South Central North Pole, with little Santa-run liquor stores on every corner foisting mulled wine forty-ouncers on the Elf populace. Or more likely they live somewhere in the depths of Santa's Manor crammed forty to a room in row after row of little bunks.

And don't throw the Keebler Elves in my face. They no more counter, nor make more palatable, the truth of Elf history than Aunt Jemima or Uncle Ben did for another human tragedy.

So let's review. Elves aren't allowed to work outside of Santa's workshop. They have nothing to wear but Santa's degrading felt frocks. And they are forced to live on Santa's property. They weren't employed so much as enslaved.

There, I said it. Santa's a slave owner.

It's not clear where Elves originated. Perhaps Santa hired some Norse thugs to pillage a Celtic enclave, capture a band of leprechauns and haul them to the North by ship. Or maybe Elves are really an indigenous Eskimo people who welcomed the white man "Santa" to their community only to have their trust betrayed, their lands annexed, and their Zhou Zhou and Webkin building skills exploited. Promised a better future and a few nips of schnapps, they now walk around with bells on their shoes so Santa can keep track of them..

I know what you're thinking, "But they seem so happy on the Christmas shows." Look behind the smiles. Sure, they are usually shown singing cheerfully as they labor in Santa's workshop. But it's almost a manic cheerfulness these Elves display, isn't it? All singing the same sugary tune in unison through gritted teeth. Their waxy smiles unnatural and forced. You sense that to exhibit an emotion even two degrees south of "Jolly" would bring down Santa's cold, hard wrath.

Yes, Santa wants us to believe they're happy Elves. They're happy to be working sixteen hour shifts building toys for the entire world (another myth actually, since Santa's delivery routes are heavily skewed to Anglo-European communities). Meanwhile Santa's parked in a Barcalounger watching the Weather Channel and sucking down hot toddy's, sweet potatoes and slices of glazed ham. Those happy, entertaining little Elves. Why they're the Step 'N Fetchit of the Arctic Circle.

Well I bet Elves are angry. I bet Elves carry the rage of generations. You can see it emerging in the toys they make. These days every other toy is a facsimile of a weapon, or a shoot-em up game about conquering an evil overlord (guess who-ooo?). They are fueling their rage into the toy designs and Santa doesn't even see it. He's too busy brushing pumpkin pie crumbs out of his beard, trying to figure out how the little snow-kickers turned a block of wood into Jenga.

It won't be long before the uprising. It'll just take one Elf to patiently dig a candy cane out of Mrs. Claus' gingerbread house, suck on it til it's as sharp as a shiv and unleash a thousand years of Elf fury.

We can abide Elfpartied no longer. I'm not gonna play Snow City. I call on you to boycott gift giving. Do not proffer you love and generosity to others through the blood, sweat, and tears of Elves. Walk your Children past storefront Santa's. Call for sanctions. Write your Senators. Write Santa himself demanding that Elves be freed. Take action before Elves are forced to take action themselves.

And this Christmas, to mark the plight of Elves, I ask you to celebrate your own freedom. Freedom of assembly. Freedom of religion. Freedom of movement. Freedom of expression. Even the freedom to write a holiday greeting that some may find patently offensive.

For in this season, what greater gift is there than freedom.

Merry Christmas!

Tim Dolan