Christmas and Beer Should Never Mix

One fateful Christmas night Santa knocked his boots off at his front door, and kicked it in. He dropped his bag formerly full of toys, and the clink of empty beer bottles rolling from said bag awoke many an elf. Santa stripped down to his boxers and, nursing another beer, headed to the kitchen where his abnormally fat and ugly wife would be jovially making cookies.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, YOU BASTARD?" shrieked the rosy-cheeked Mrs. Claus, who was forced to pause for a breath and sit down at the overlarge chairs at the dining room table.

Santa glared at his miserable wench of a wife. "Shut up, woman. Make me food!" demanded Santa.

Mrs. Claus stood to her full height, and her intimidating obesity spread out before Santa. "GIT OUTTA MY KITCHEN!" screamed Mrs. Claus, throwing Christmas-tree-shaped cookies at her fat husband. Santa grunted.

"I'll be back, bitch!" screamed Santa, throwing away his half-empty booze bottle. It crashed on the floor, shattering and splashing alcohol on the heated stove range. As the conflagration stole over his kitchen, and his enormous wife screamed incoherently, and the elves threw their tiny bodies on the flames in an attempt to staunch them, Santa pulled on his ugly red pants, and slapped the suspenders over his sweaty rolls of fat. He bellowed to the rest of his chaotic household that he was going out, and to fuck off and burn in hell.

Needless to say, Christmas never put Santa in a very good mood, but this particular Christmas was the last straw. As a very hung over Santa woke up the next morning in his sleigh somewhere in the Bahamas, he knew he'd hit rock bottom. There was only one man who could help him now...

Dumbledore sat in his office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, contemplating life and eating mysteriously wonderful salsa. It was a rather boring Christmas, what with none of his students threatening to die, and no pretty fuck-toy to amuse him. He sighed. He supposed there was always Fawkes...

There was a large, BO-reeking burst of green haze from Dumbledore's fireplace, followed by one fat ass hanging out of said hearth.

"Dumby! Help!" cried the tremendously fat man stuck inside the chimney. "Fuck it all, Dumby! Hurry!"

Dumbledore rose one eyebrow. Then again...

"One moment!" he called cheerfully, digging for his 'lipsol' full of Vaseline in the upper right-hand drawer.

"Dumby!" the muffled, fat man cried, sounding urgent.

So Dumbledore sighed, rounded his desk, and clamped on to the fat ass with all his might. In short order, Santa found himself sprawled on Dumbledore's floor, with a very manic-looking Dumbledore standing over him gleefully.

"Thanks, Dumby," said Santa, looking bashful. He rolled over until he could support himself on his fat knees, and then sunk into a chair, which he promptly broke. "Dammit..." he muttered.

"No matter!" said Dumbledore cheerfully, taking out his wand and fixing the chair. "What brings you here, Santa? Long time, no see, eh?"

Santa nodded. He looked horrible. His hideous beard was matted with drool and beer, and he was wearing his likewise sweaty and beer-stained wife-beater underneath his red pants complete with thick suspenders and once-shiny black boots. "The wife's gone and kicked me out. Sent an elf to tell me this morning. Woke up on some beach, hung over."

Dumbledore slid onto his desk, crossing his legs and smiling slyly. "Oh? So you're single, then..." He began to dig around in his drawer again for that... er, lipsol.

"I guess so," sighed Santa, too thick to catch on.

"That's marvelous!" cried Dumbledore. He launched himself at the fat man, and the two had themselves a wonderful fuck fest. Merry Christmas!