It’s tough for an elf during the holidays. Everyone is always pulling at your ears, or asking you about the North Pole, or glaring disapprovingly at your public drunkenness.

People of Bank Street: I no longer live up North! I am not working for that slave driver, Santa, who chained me to my workstation to improve his productivity. I am self employed now, thank you very much. If you would like to make a donation, just look in the other direction while I nab your wallet.

What?! Oh, don’t look at me all holier-than-thou, you hypocrite. I may not work for Santa anymore, but I still remember his naughty list like the back of my tiny hand. You should not be one to judge. You overfeed your already-obese cat, you hit on your boss to get extra vacation days, and you have some seriously questionable toys hidden under your bed. Thought Santa didn’t keep track of spiked paddles? Think again. I know you.

But don’t worry. I’ll go easy on you. I also know that you emptied your cupboards and gave everything to the Food Bank. You didn’t vote for Ottawa’s doofus of a mayor, and thank goodness, because that guy is crazier than a bag of hammers. And I notice that you are keeping your damaged wallet together with a binder clip. How clever! I’ll just take a twenty and give the rest back. You really shouldn’t keep your SIN card in there, you know. There are sketchy people around.