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I Survived Santa Claus Bootcamp: A Memoir

For a group of holly-jolly assholes, there wasn’t much holiday spirit brimming in the barracks.

Bodies bulged where they shouldn’t. Bunks groaned ominously under the strain, and the veteran Santas had no patience for the rookies. We were too scrawny, our beards were too patchy, and our lactose intolerance—a personal affront to the sacred 2%—marked us as impostors—certified fakes. I overheard one senior Claus mutter that we might as well be elves.

But after thirteen weeks, we emerged heavier, jollier, and distinctly more crimson than ever. Our cheeks were as rosy as our uniforms, and our personalities sparkled like tinsel. We survived Santa Claus Boot Camp, and this is our story.

The Arrival

Boot Camp started off like it always does. One Drill Santa Claus barged onto the bus and proceeded to let us know we were lower than elf shit.

It was psychological from the start. The Drill Sergeant wore green as opposed to our famous red. His face was clean-shaven—a travesty—and to top it off, he didn’t wear a stocking cap with a fluffy ball. He wore a green Smokey Bear hat like some kind of asshole. We’d quickly learn his name was Sergeant Goodcheer, but his demeanor was so stiff it was like he had a permanent candy cane shoved up his ass.

“I am your new drill sergeant: Sgt. Goodcheer.”

The other Santas gulped in unison and Sgt. Goodcheer smiled ominously.

“Fall in line!”

We tensed up and quickly fell in.

“Today and for the next 13 weeks, my job is to take you bunch of sorry, sloppy assholes and turn you into the Red Man. You will know what cookies taste like. You will ride reindeer. You will learn to give uncomfortable eye contact with some brat’s parents after they ask you for a PS5 and you both know they’re not getting one. In short, you will become the Claus.”

At that moment, for some reason, there was hope in his insults. A bright hope in the pain. His voice promised a brighter, albeit sledded, future, and all we had to do was grab the reins and trust.

“Now, you have exactly two minutes to grab all your shit and throw it behind the bus. I expect you to get it done and form a straight line—not a curved one, tubby!” He said, focusing on one particularly portly recruit.

One of the Santa recruits glanced nervously at his luggage before raising a hand.

“Mr. Goodcheer?”

“It’s Sergeant Goodcheer.”

“Sgt. Goodcheer. My… my medicine. I need to take my shot for diabetes.”

“Diabetes?” Goodcheer laughed, low and cruel. “Well, I’ve got tough news for you, Sunny. This camp is gonna be all sugar. So shut up and fall in line. We don’t believe in that witchcraft. Santas don’t get sick.

The recruit looked as though the very universe had rejected him, and in that moment, it had.

The Barracks

We were dog-marched over to the barracks, the Drill Sergeant snapping at us like a Karen having her cherished coupon promising unmatched savings rejected.

His orders were intentionally inconsistent.

“Move faster!”
“Slow down!”
“Move faster!”

And we all struggled to find the pace. The worst part? He was smiling, clearly enjoying his cruelty. Then finally, before our eyes, stood a green, half-cylinder building with 24 erect chimneys.

The Drill Sergeant raised one hand and motioned to the monstrosity.

“Ladies, I want to introduce you to your five-star resort. Your Sandals retreat. Your Taj Mahal. Your new home.”

We couldn’t see the excitement. All we could see was concrete hell. But in his eyes, it was paradise.

One of the recruits, red-faced, walked past the sergeant, plopped to the door, and pushed it open. It was his first mistake.

“Door? DOOR? Tell me, troops, do Santas use the door?”

“NO, DRILL SERGEANT!”

“That’s right! What do we use?”

“THE CHIMNEY!”

“That’s right! You are uncivilized! You do not behave normally. You are crooks swimming with the Christmas Spirit. SO climb your ass up and come down the chimney. As for you, Mr. Sullivan, do pushups until you see snowflakes.”

We climbed the ladder—several of the larger Santa Clauses struggled, huffing and puffing through the whole ordeal—and made our way into the barracks, settling in.

Before us was a bare room with cots looking like the fading spirit that lived inside all of us.

It was a welcome to boot camp.

Eventually, Sgt. Goodcheer made his way into the room.

“Ladies, right now, you are not Santas. You’re not even elves. Hell, you’re barely reindeer droppings! But by the end of this camp, I will turn you into Claus-certified badasses who can eat 10,000 cookies and kiss 11,000 wives. By the end of this, you’ll ho-ho-ho so hard you’ll make Mariah Carey cry! Now get some sleep. Beleive me when I say you’re going to need it.”

Recruit Sullivan apparently saw snowflakes and raised a trembling hand. His second mistake.

“Excuse me, Drill Sergeant, where’s… where’s the bathroom?”

Goodcheer’s eyes narrowed like a ballpoint pen. “Bathroom? BATHROOM?” He leaned in close, his peppermint breath a lethal weapon. “You ever hear a toilet flush on Christmas Eve because Santa used the bathroom?”

“Uh… no?”

“Exactly. You go in the snow. And you whistle ‘Jingle Bells’ while you’re at it!”

So up the chimney and out the door he went, whistling “Jingle Bells” all the way.

He was so good-natured, we couldn’t stand him.

Training

Training was hell.

Goodcheer introduced us to our weapon: a candy cane. We were told to love it, to take care of it as though it were our own striped cock. A few of the Santas took it a bit too seriously and started licking the candy cane, which only led to more push-ups and the growing disappointment of Sgt. Goodcheer.

Like all boot camp training, this was meant to break the mind and body. To turn men into putty, only to sculpt them up by the burdens of Christmas, one slight at a time.

Throughout training, Drill Sergeant Goodcheer would pace in front of us, holding up the famous suit. He told us we weren’t worthy enough to wear it—let alone look at it—but that, with his training, we would be.

Something about the way he said it made even me, a cynic, believe him. It was that promise again. The shining red promise in a camp drowning in darkness.

From there, we were marched to the café and told to build our bodies. We were forced to eat sweet treats. Being Santa is a long day of work, and we’d need those caloric reserves to fuel our bodies—or so we were told.

A few of the Santas got wobbly-kneed at the sight of the lunch lady, Mrs. Claus. She smelled like sugar, her hands were round and warm, and her eyes … her eyes could melt a snowman. Maybe even two.

In training, it was stressed that we needed to acclimate to the weather, and Sgt. Goodcheer went as far as to taunt us with the heroics of the postman. “If those bastards can deliver in rain, sleet, or snow—so can we. They’re not the only ones with a bad uniform who can deliver!”

Being Santa, apparently, is getting more competitive, as during our drills, Sgt. Goodcheer kept reminding us that Amazon, FedEx, and UPS were coming for our jobs.

More pressure to form a diamond, I suppose.

In training, we climbed slanted roofs, shimmied down chimneys, and carried presents—enough for a rich kid’s worth of toys—all to build our strength.

There were workshops on posture (you have to look jolly, even when your knees are buckling), voice modulation (there’s a fine line between booming and terrifying), and conflict resolution (“Santa doesn’t argue with toddlers. Santa redirects to embarrassed parents.”).

The physical training was grueling, but the mental challenges were worse.

Sit in a chair. Sit in a chair for eight hours. Sit in a chair for eight hours while kids ask for things you can’t possibly provide. Smile and lie to them. Do it again. Do it once more.

Training with the kids was the worst.

“I want a unicorn!” one kid shrieked.

“You can’t have that,” I replied, smiling through gritted teeth.

“But why?”

“Because unicorns don’t exist.”

This, it turned out, was the wrong answer. Goodcheer yanked me out of my chair and made me run laps around the barracks while singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

Some recruits couldn’t take it.

Some Santas broke down, shoving each other, calling each other skinny or clean-shaven.

But ultimately, we persevered. In the end, we had one final test.

The Chimney Test
The Chimney Test was the final hurdle, and it was less about Christmas magic and more about humiliation.

We were given a sack of toys, a stopwatch, and a chimney that seemed engineered by someone who actively hates human bodies. Designed as if a 300lb man couldn’t slide down the chimney.

“Get in, drop the gifts, and get out without knocking over the tree in 60 seconds,” Goodcheer commanded.

I wedged myself into the chimney, feeling like a sausage being stuffed into a can. About halfway down, I lost my grip and tumbled headfirst into the “living room,” knocking over a table, a fake menorah, and—somehow— my pride.

When I looked up, Goodcheer was standing over me, shaking his head. “If this were real life,” he said, “you’d be an international incident.”

I’d never been more embarrassed.

Graduation
At the end of it all, we had a big graduation ceremony and were assigned our uniforms. It’s like anything in life: what you struggle to get is what you tend to appreciate the most.

And my uniform, at the time of this writing, still hasn’t left my body. And to be truthful, I doubt it ever will.

After the ceremony, we were sent to malls across the country, given a legion of elves, and a firm handshake from Sgt. Goodcheer.

It may not be much, but it was everything to me.

In the end, I can sum up the whole experience like this: Reindeer farts and jingle bells—Santa life is weird as hell.

Please like, comment, share and tell me what you think! Could you survive BootCamp?

22 thoughts on “I Survived Santa Claus Bootcamp: A Memoir”

  1. Funny you should ask. I did, in fact, survive Boot Camp, although mine was at Lackland AFB, TX. I reported on 1 December 1975 and graduated who-the-heck-knows in January 1976. Yup, spent Christmas and New Years being cursed at and ran hard. So why did I pick that time of the year to go? Silly me, I thought maybe they’d go easier on us during the holidays. I was not blessed with an abundance of great forethought and logic. And no, I don’t believe I would have survived Santa Clause Boot Camp.

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  2. Here’s me, laughing my ass off! I survived Navy boot camp during the Orlando summer, but this boot camp? Nah, I’ll give that a firm pass. I enjoyed your experience, though! Merry Christmas, Tony!

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