I don't own Batman, and I don't own the title of the story either, I think Weird Al owns that. Ho hum, such is life.

The whole concept of Santa is nothing but a gyp. He slides down all these chimneys, right? And he's free to roam all over the house. And what does he do? He leaves a lot of goddamn presents, he never takes anything for himself when he goes. It's a waste of a perfectly good breaking-and-entering, that's what Joker thinks, and he's got it all planned out how he's going to even the balance, this Christmas Eve.

And he has his beard, and he has his padded belly. He has his plush Santa-suit -- it may be green and purple, but so what? All the good little boys and girls are supposed to be asleep when Santa shows up anyway.

And here he comes, he's sliding his ass down Bruce Wayne's chimney -- You might as well start at the top with your Santa-ing, that's what Joker thinks. Either that or maybe he wants to put one over on Alfred. -- And he's landing with a thud and a jingle in Bruce Wayne's fireplace. ...And then he's looking right straight into Bruce Wayne's bloodshot eyes, because Gotham City's most eligible bachelor is all alone this Christmas Eve, just sitting here by the fire with a glass of eggnog at his elbow. And he's drunk as a coot!

"Goddamn fog," he mutters -- He hasn't seen his visitor yet, apparently. -- "visibility at a hundred feet all night," he says, "how's a guy supposed to get a bat-copter airborne?" He takes a swig of eggnog. "Joker's loose too, I wish I knew what he was planning."

Joker could say what he's planning. Right now he's planning to make sure and remember this useful bit of information that the drunk Mr. Wayne has generously dropped in his purple plush lap. No matter what else happens tonight, he's sure as hell gotten his Christmas present, and he's planning on having some fun with it starting tomorrow. For now though, there are other things to take care of. He clears his throat -- just to get old Bat-brain's attention -- and, "ho, ho, ho," he tells him.

"You're the Joker," Bruce Wayne comments. He smiles kind of blearily, and nods his head, adding, "I can tell, Santa's teeth are way whiter than yours are."

Way to hurt a Clown's feelings! But never let it be said that Joker's not a trouper; "ho, ho, ho," he says again. He takes a minute to step out of the fireplace (which was getting a little cramped), and he brushes the soot off his shoulders, and he says, "who is this Joker of whom you speak. I'm Santa, you know, with the holly, and the jolly, and kisses under the mistletoe for all the pretty girls."

"That kiss thing sounds like a good idea" -- Is this really his arch-nemesis talking? And is he really grabbing Joker by the shoulders and bringing their lips together with a hard smack?

And is that really millionaire-tongue and eggnog Joker tastes in his mouth? It's not a bad taste, but it's sure as hell not what he expected, and he finds himself trying his best just to pull free. Only everyone knows the Batman's always stronger than he is. "I saw Batman kissing Santa Claus," drunk-Bruce sings slurrily, and then, "c'mere you," he says, and plants another wet one right in the middle of Joker's smile. "You're not so bad, maybe I've m-misjudged you all these years. Maybe all you ever needed to reform you was the power of love."

Yeah, and pigs will fly, but that doesn't mean you should put all your savings into Airborne Bacon. You ever see the cat trying to get away from Pepe le Pew in the old cartoons? That's Joker, he's trying to claw loose, while Bruce Wayne, Gotham's drunkest millionaire, gives him hugs and squeezes and smooches. He's sure he's gonna fuckin' smother -- Either that or maybe his old nemesis will be right, and he'll be reformed by the power of love. He's just about to lose hope (not to mention his lunch), and then, "this calls for a drink," Bruce says, and he lurches off to the kitchen for more eggnog, leaving the Clown Prince of Crime, finally -- and blessedly -- alone.


It's not Christmas morning yet when Harley wakes up. It's still the middle of the night, and good little girls -- and bad little hench-wenches -- are supposed to be snug in their beds dreaming of sugar plums. Only the ex-Dr. Harleen Quinzell hears something. It's coming from the bathroom, and there's no way she's going back to sleep until she sees what it is.

She stumbles in there and blinks at the sudden bright light. There's her boss and sometime boyfriend, hunched over the sink. He's brushing his teeth and mouthwashing like there's no tomorrow, and every time he finishes, he spits, and then he starts right back in again. "It's evil," he says, "it's immoral."

"What is, Mister J?" she asks him.

He gargles again -- He's using pure Joker Venom -- and he spits hard before he goes on, "it's a perversion, Harley-girl, a monstrous, unnatural perversion."

She just looks at him.

Finally, he tells her. "I found the Batman," he says. "I went over to his place in my Santa-suit, and I had my sleigh waiting outside, and my bag slung over my back all ready to stuff full of goodies. And then it happened."

"It was horrible," he says, "it was terrible, it was awful." In the darkest of dark tones, in tones that are usually unacquainted with the Joker and his jollyness, "it was a perversion of all that's right, Harley," he says, "I was over there with the Batman, and he was the one having fun, and I wasn't.