Prose to Script: The Pissed-Off Pissed-On Santa

A couple weeks ago, I posted a story inspired (loosely) by my trip to Lincoln Park Zoolights.

Due to the (temporary) falling-through of some Three Legged Race plans, we’ve decided to make it into a video and film this weekend in time that suddenly came open. So I’ve adapted it into a script, which is below.

What’s changed? Well, the mall owner’s now a guy. Logical enough, since 3LR is, currently, three guys (with guests). I’ve also altered some dialog, partly to make it punchier for video, and partly just knowing the actors who will be in it and tailoring the words to them.

For comparison’s sake, here’s the script.


Video opens with a few brief shots of crowds at a shopping center, with Christmas music playing over. One shows crowd waiting for a mall Santa, or the Santa visit promo sign or similar. The next and final shot shows one of the doors in a mall that lead to the private employee areas.

CUT TO: Non-descript office hallway area. A door slams, and an angry RALPH drags WALT, who’s still in his Santa outfit, in and immediately begins berating him.

RALPH: There is a maximum permissible threshold for the amount of profanity you are permitted to use when you portray Santa Claus at the Central Valley Shopping Centre. That threshold is none. No profanity. Whatsoever. Why was that not obvious to you?

In cuts, we see that WALT is also angry. He’s repressing his rage, but we can tell he’s mad. In one cut, he picks at his costume, although we don’t see precisely what he’s picking at.

WALT: I understand that, in general, a mall Santa should not swear while children are sitting on his lap. I feel, however, that there are some extenuating circumstances.

RALPH: And do you really believe that these extenuating circumstances justify your use of the ephitets ‘God damn it,’ ‘Son of a bitch,’ ‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ and ‘Holy bastard crap fuck’?”

WALT: You weren’t there.

RALPH: Jingles the elf told me, and Mrs. Clause corroborated. Of course, ‘holy bastard crap fuck,’ was loud enough for me to hear it from my office. Since my office is about a thousand feet away from Santa’s Wonderland, plus two floors up, I have to think you said it pretty loudly.

RALPH sniffs.

RALPH: By the way, you stink.

WALT: Yes, I do.

WALT points to his pants, which are soaked. RALPH understands what happened, and it dials down his anger a bit to disappointment.

RALPH: Walt, when you went through Santa training, weren’t you warned that you’d be working with excited young children, and that on occasion they might have accidents?

WALT: Why, yes, I was, Ralph. And if you interview Jingles and Mrs. Claus, I believe you will find that when I was urinated upon, my reaction was understanding, and even jolly.

RALPH: Then what was the problem, Walt?

WALT: The problem, Ralph, was that the urination was not “on occasion”. In fact, once that first little girl tinkled on my lap, there was, if you’ll forgive my terminology, a steady stream of copycat pissers.

RALPH: They’re children, Walt. They’re susceptible to peer pressure. Or, maybe, it’s pheromones. You know, like animals marking their territory.

WALT: How many times you could be marked before you began using language unbecoming a Santa Claus, Ralph?

RALPH shrugs. WALT begins losing control of his anger here.

WALT: It wasn’t even just the young children. About twenty or so pissings in, there was a little old lady with her walker with the tennis balls on the bottom. And she just pushed through the Santa’s Wonderland ropes, and came right up to me, and hiked up her dress, and peed on me standing up. Tell me, Ralph, did she just confuse Santa’s Wonderland for a bathroom, and me for a toilet, and standing up for sitting?

RALPH: (Unsteadily) I don’t know.

WALT: Or a little bit later, when what I’d have to call a pee balloon fell from the second-story balcony and exploded onto what I’d have to call my head? (WALT grabs a bit of busted balloon that’s stuck to the back of his head and tosses it at RALPH) Don’t you think that you might use the phrase ‘Holy bastard crap fuck,” in response to that?”

RALPH: I don’t know.

WALT: Well, why don’t we find out!

WALT strips off his Santa pants; he’s wearing festive holiday boxer shorts underneath. He tosses the pants in a bit of an arc at RALPH, and they land around his face and head.

WALT triumphantly turns and walks out; he slips once in a previously unseen puddle that he made, but he doesn’t acknowledge this. He slams the door on his way out.

RALPH gingerly pulls the wet mass off of himself. He drops it to the floor – there is a slightly exaggerated squelching sound effect.

RALPH pulls out a walkie talkie. He speaks into it.

RALPH: Richard? I’m promoting you. You’re no longer Jingles, you’re now Santa Claus.

RICHARD is outside a mall, preparing to light a cigarette.

RICHARD: Wow, Ralph, thank you.

RICHARD hangs up. Then he grins, pulls out his cell phone, and dials someone.

RICHARD: Sally? Richard. Operation Mississippi is a success. Abort further pissions. Repeat: Abort further pissions.

RICHARD hangs up, and begins laughing maniacally as the picture fades.


2 thoughts on “Prose to Script: The Pissed-Off Pissed-On Santa

  1. Pingback: Hello, Radio! « Future Famous Author Greg Landgraf

  2. Pingback: The Pissed-Off, Pissed-On Santa, final video edition « Future Famous Author Greg Landgraf

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