“Rudolph has COVID?” Santa asked with surprise.
“‘Fraid so,” answered the Large Animal Vet. “And he’s gonna need lots of rest and fluids, so he’s won’t be able to guide you this Christmas eve.”
Stunned, Santa walked from the barn to the house.
“Don’t know what I’m going to do with out him,” he complained to Mrs. Claus.
“You used to do the job when he wasn’t part of your sleigh team.”
“Yeah, I used to do this job without him, it jus’ seems so long ago.”
“I’m certain you can do it.”
“Thank you, dear.”
They were nearly nine hours into their trip when Santa realized he had led the team in the wrong direction, off course, over California instead of West Texas. It took him a few minutes to finally find an isolated place to set down.
“Well, now what?” he asked as he checked his GSP against the paper map he always carried.
“Okay, here we are,” he stated, a stubby finger pointing to the Alabama Hills between Independence and Lone Pine, off of US 395.
Then he heard sounds coming from an outcropping of rocks off to his right.
“Maybe they can help me by giving me directions or something?”
As he rounded the outcropping, he stumbled onto the set of a Star Trek episode. Kirk, Spock, Sulu, Scotty, Uhura, and Bones McCoy were battling seven eight-armed creatures, a blaster wrapped in each tentacle, and for some reason, the Enterprise could not lock onto their signals.
It is too bad Santa was the one wearing red.
The Old Blog in the Desert 