Elf on the Shelf.
I hate, hate, Elf on the Shelf.
How’s the introduction of the elf work anyway?
Mom: Hey kids! Not only is an old fat guy watching you, here’s a creepy, floppy piece of felt with no discernible appendages, a permanent smirk, and a head that can rotate all. the. way. around who is reporting your every move to the aforementioned old fat guy.
Mom: Isn’t voyeurism fun?!? Scoot along and behave. The elf is watching!
Except, according to my FB feed, that elf is a prick.
Throwing flour all over the floor and making an elf angel? Drawing mustaches on all the pictures? Fishing goldfish crackers out of the toilet? Taking a bubble bath in marshmallows? Toilet papering the living room? Not only does the little bastard creep around, he makes a mess?
Thank you, no.
Good thing my kids don’t give a rat’s patoot about ye olde Elf of Shame, amirite?
Until this year.
The Universe decided it needed a giggle and my daughter came home from school regaling her brothers with tales of her friends’ elves’ antics. Then came the request I’d been dreading: CAN WE HAVE AN ELF?
And I said, “No! The elf is creepy! No way. NO ELF!”
Confession: at our house it sometimes take the tooth fairy three or four nights before she actually gets around to collecting her bounty. Elf Shaming 24 nights in a row? During one of the busiest times of the year? Yeah. Not likely. The weird factor + the lazy parent factor does not make for a good formula in the Elf of Shame Game.
I kept repeating my mantra, “NO ELF! NO ELF!” and my heathens, little bastards that they are, kept begging, spurred on by Tales of Elfin Awesomeness.
My friend Liz’s elf was especially creative and charming and I most often heard all about his antics. Until, that is, he was dismembered by the family dog.
But her second grader (who’s in SG’s class) was so upset that Santa dispatched another elf tout de suite and her kid came to school talking about the new elf and
You’re such a dick, Liz.
Adding insult to injury is the fact that we own an elf. I picked up the kit for $3 at a garage sale a couple years ago because another friend was all, “ZOMG! It’s SO FUN!” and me, being an idiot, believed her. For the record, she LIES.
Frustrated, I took to Facebook, calling out the Pro-Elf Shamers:
And then this happened:
With that declaration, Liz and I confirmed our tickets to Hell, and off we went. The goal: pervert Elf on the Shelf as much as humanly possible.
D**k in the Box elves. Unoriginal, yes. But! Those are custom made and wrapped Lego d**k boxes. Plus, the styling of the picture feels authentic to the elves’ personalities. Or something.
50 Shades of Elfin Naughtiness. You’ve been bad? You’ll take your fir branch spanking and you’ll like it! (Photo, staging, and idea credit go to S____.)
“Why hello, Ladies. Do you know what my favorite Christmas song is? That’s right. ‘Jingle Bells.'”
Anyone else surprised by the striped elf winkie?
Elf, fed-up with years of hard labor and no glory (or cookies), decided it was time for the lazy old fat man to get what he deserved.
And to all a good night, indeed.
It’s so fun. Like, this, THIS, is what Christmas is about. Giggling. Being inappropriate. Not spending any money. Collaborating on subversive scenes. The Baby Jesus.
Wait. Not the Baby Jesus. Clearly, Liz and I’s version of Elf on the Shelf is not appropriate for an infant. Or Jesus. And, really, none of this has anything to do with Christmas. It just gives us an excuse to be inappropriate and avoid housework.
It’s all fun and games until you get caught.
My kids saw the damn elf in the top of my closet (thank goodness it was not longer bound in the leather straps from my purse) because my husband, funny man that he is, wrapped it around a lint brush.
So now? Now we have the mØth3rf***ing elf. It doesn’t do anything but move around the house and I feign irritation, anger, and outright indignation that the little fucker had the audacity to wander our house. The kids, little weirdos, are like “ZOMG! IT MOVED!” and then I get good and huffy and declare, “It better stay there because we are NOT doing the elf.”
Except we are.
And it’s all Liz’s fault.
I hate Elf on the Shelf.