Socrates got up. It was early and his toes

Socrates got up. It was early and his toes were cold. He called his slave to bring some warm water. The slave came in. There was brown crap down the front of his tunic. Socrates

dabbed it with his finger to give it a taste. When it hit his tongue, Socrates thought he had tasted the secretions of a wild animal. An explosion of flavor. But how?

"Why, its OXO bullion!" said Mother Socrates, as she dabbed alittle behind each of his ears. "Gives a meal man appeal. How else will you get a boyfriend, my son?" Socrates blushed

at the thought of men and str a dogs licking behind his ears. He donned his best tight jeans and two-sizes too small t-shirt, and headed out to the club, a smoldering bouillon pube

"Oh shit, not one of these again," he rasped. "Fuck Santa's wife one too many times and this shit happens." The tiny voice on his ear begged for mercy. Perched there was a small

partridge who sang, "The clause! The clause!" This alerted me to the final clause of the prenup Mrs. Claus and I were signing: "Mrs. Claus is entitled to a daily back rub." I don't

why this all matters, gingerbread plum cake. Do you think a prenup is necessary, treacle tart sugar lump? She eyed me over her bifocals. "Where do you go once a year in that sled?"

Santa told her a wee little fib about bringing presents to children all over the world to make them happy. The future Mrs.Claus forgot all about the prenup & Santa was in the money

Store, putting up the whole workshop just to get enough for the elves' payroll. Santa needed a stimulus package in the worst way. An episode of BREAKING BAD gave him an idea...