And no, there’s no monetary compensation involved.
Okay, I don’t see how how Rudolph’s nose would have been at all advantageous to Santa if there had been limited visibility due to adverse weather conditions. It would be like trying to use your high beams in the fog. Now, if said caribou were equipped with low beams on his front hooves, yeah, maybe. But that’s just silly.
And just how wide-spread was this damn fog, anyway? When John and I lived in The Poconos a few years ago, we used to run into creepy patches of fog that materialized out of nowhere quite frequently. (I’m convinced Satan has a vacation home in Bushkill. Just no other rational explanation.) We drove out of said climatic apocalypse in three, four minutes tops. At that was hovering slightly above the speed limit of 35MPH. Santa covers the entire planet (the important Christian part, anyway) in what? The course of a few hours or so? He’s either going a million miles an hour, which is unrealstic, or time warping/wormholing, or some shit like that.
No matter. The job gets done regardless. So a little mist over a few miles in North America is probably not even going to register as more than a blink, if that.
Let’s get real. When it came to Rudolph, Santa was kind of a dick.
Oh sure, it was all well and good that “poor Rudolph” was being be bullied to the point of suicidal contemplation. Santa was all fuzzy gloved hands off, and way to willing to turn a blind in the name of being too lazy to do anything to help.
“The kid has to toughen up. He needs to work it out himself.”
That is, until his fat, gelatinous gut needed something, then it was all, “Oh, Rudolph with your nose so bright, blah, blah, ass kiss, etc.”
What’s the matter, old man? Flying by your instruments too complicated for your techno-challenged brain? GPS beyond your senile comprehension? What a jerk.
Honestly, this was not so much an emergency maneuver to save the holiday as effort to push the “supercrip” agenda that is so beloved of lazy-ass, able-bodied America. And as a handicapped person myself, I resent the implication that I am worthy of existing only if I have some superpower to be exploited. Goddamn X-Men.
What’s more, I was bitten by a spider two years ago, and the only superpower I got was to develop a staph infection that just won’t die. So Merry Freakin’ Christmas.
Oh, and screw you, too, Wolverine, for also ruining yet another Christmas last year with that God-awful screen adaption of Les Miserables.