Sorry, Sir, Milk & Cookies Aren’t On The Menu

I’m a seventy-year-old man. I’m a little over six feet tall and a little over two-hundred pounds. It’s early November, and I’m in a long line at a popular fast food restaurant. I have a very full white beard.

The employee is a young lady taking orders at her terminal, and she doesn’t look up.

Employee: “What would you like to eat?”

I give my order.

Employee: “And what name for the order?”

Me: “Santa.”

She looks up for just a second. 

Employee: “I’ll allow it.”

She types that on my receipt, and I go to wait with a group of ten others. A few minutes later, I get a bag of food handed to me. The young man giving me the bag says:

Other Employee: “I didn’t have to ask for a name because I knew it was for Santa.”