Elves - pt1

'And what would they be then?'
'Presents.'
'Pheasants?'
'Not pheasants, you klutz. Presents. What we deliver to all the darling boys and girls.'
'So run this one past me again... All the children of the world write their little notes to Fanta-'
'Santa.'
'That's what I said - Santa. And then Santa - or rather, Santa's P.A. - compiles all the requests onto a spreadsheet. The spreadsheet is split into the various departments. Then we get the thankless task of delivering the stuff to the little brats.'
'We deliver it, yes. Although you may want to be careful about referring to the recipients as "little brats around The Boss.'
'Whatever. I'm only temping at this shit-hole for a couple of weeks, then I'm outta here.'
'What do you reckon you'll be doing next, then?'
'That would be telling.'
'All right... Well first of all, you check the presents as they go down this conveyor belt... for dents, scratches or whatev-'
'I'm an actor.'
'Pardon?'
When I get out of here - that's what I'll be doing.'
'Is there much call for short, pointy-eared people in that line of business?'
'I'm going for an audition for a part in Star Trek. Spock's long lost son.'
'Good luck with that then...'
'Two weeks! And then I'll be boldly going where no elf has gone before.'
'The dole queue?'
'Hilarious.'
'Remember: conveyor belt... presents...'
'Not pheasants?'
'Not pheasants... dents and scratches... check for them... and no slacking! The Boss doesn't tolerate slacking. Any of that and you'll be out on your big pointy ear.'
'Whatever.'

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