Twelve reindeer is twelve too many. Santa wanted to renovate his life; out with the old, in with the new. First out the door were Donner, Blitzen, and the rest of the red-nosed-reindeer posse. But alas, what would pull Santa’s new sleigh? He desired an animal of brute strength, an animal which was not afraid to get down and dirty. What Santa required were three bears, three dirty bears. It is common knowledge that all bears are dirty and smelly, but where to obtain ones suitable for his sleigh rides?

Santa traveled to a location rumored to house some filthy bears, an Amsterdam sewer. (You’ve never heard of a sewer bear? Well, neither had I, but they sure do sound filthy.) Kris Kringle splashed into the habitat of the grubby grizzlies, wadding down the waterway until he spotted his prey. Three stained sewer bears stood not thirty yards from his protruding belly. Santa splish-splashed towards them with surprising speed, pouncing on the unsuspecting grimy grizzly bears. The dirty bears, now bound by a cocoon mint-flavored dental floss, were carried over Saint Nick’s shoulder, out of their Netherland sewer environment, straight to the North Pole, on foot. The murky bears made little resistance, powerless against their aqua-colored restraints.

After trudging through a blizzard, Santa arrived home with his three newly-captured, rank-smelling bears. Mrs. Claus was less-than-pleased to find these soiled bears on their doorstep, yet still made them feel at home, preparing a smelly-bear smorgasbord of succulent poison berries. In the presence of all this kindness, jubilee, and green-hatted midgets, the mud-covered bears lost all ferocity. Some say the bears’ hearts grew three sizes that day, to an unnatural, grotesque, and probably smelly, size. The reeking bears were suddenly obedient to the will of Santa and his homies, even Black Peter. Papa Noel immediately strapped his three dirty bears to the reigns of his majestic magic sleigh. Cookies? Not now, Mrs. Claus, Santa’s working.

Father Christmas plopped his rump onto the throne of the sleigh and gripped the reigns tightly. Naming the malodorous bears on the spot, Santa called out to them, telepathically. “On Chuva, on Olave, on Enrique de Gouva!” Instantly the filthy bears leapt into action. They rushed forward, pulling with torque equal to that of twelve reindeer with only their staggered rank of three. The three launch into the air, dragging the sleigh and the fat man with them, and tear into the sky, dark as fresh dirt.