Santa Claus: This Christmas shit is killing me, E.B. I can't believe you get to kick back for, like, four more months.
Easter Bunny: Is it four? Which day is my thing this year? I can never keep track. Anyway, Kris, it's not so great — I have to work on Spring Break, you know. (Cracks open a can of Natty Light and mutters something about "sun-soaked titties") How are things with the Missus?
SC: Meh, whatevs. Better though. She's finally over that goddamn song.
EB: "I Saw Mommy Kissing —
SC: Nah, I handled that… said it was the kid's dad. I mean the other one.
EB: "Santa Baby"?
SC: Ugh. Remember that skank I told you about? The high maintenence one? Hit it, quit it, then she went all "Fatal Attraction" on me and WROTE A HIT FUCKING SONG ABOUT IT. Unforgivable. Gold-digging bitch almost landed me in divorce court. It's pretty much blown over, though. The wife's a little like Carmela Soprano — she knows how good she has it up here, you know? Best part is, lately she's gotten all batshit in bed just to keep me interested.
EB: How do you mean?
SC: Let's just say you could call her "Mrs. Claws" regardless of whether we were married.
EB: Sporting some battle scars, are we?
SC: Man, like you wouldn't believe. Mauled-by-the-Abominable-Snowman bad. I can't even lean back in the sleigh anymore. What about you? Don't even try and tell me you're sleeping alone. I always reek of toddler piss, Cupid looks like Verne Troyer with wings and Pilgrim won't give a girl anything besides basic missionary. You were always the ladykiller of the crew.
EB: (Pauses, grinning) Ask me who.
SC: Oh, this has to be good.
EB: Ask me.
SC: Chick from "Space Jam"?
EB: Nah, think human. Here's a hint: Jessica. Rabbit.
SC: I call bullshit.
EB: No lie, my friend. (Pulls out phone, flips through pictures…) See that shit?
SC: Ho, ho… damn, I stand corrected. But I thought she was with…
EB: Not so much. In fact, you'll be able to call her Jessica Bunny soon. She's obsessed.
SC: Really? Can't blame you for locking that shit up. I'd marry her in a heartbeat, if it wasn't for that off-putting beastiality fetish she has. Alas, I'm stuck with Pasty Von Flabbyflesh.
EB: Occupational hazard, I guess.
SC: So right, my friend, so right. At least she knows how to tickle the chestnuts when she's riding that candy cane.
EB: Amen to that.
SC: Please don't get religious on me. Sooo tired of that Guy.