It's NanoWriMo time of year again, and I must write some 50k word novel before the end of November. Here's what I've got so far: um, nothing. But there are ideas, yes, and bad ones too: a space opera satire (kind of like The Other Country but in outer space, maybe with an uber-villain, a Federation, and loud vacuum explosions), a meme-tool story (religion as an actively maintained and modified system controlled by a bunch of dudes nobody knows about--sort of Foucault's Pendulum with Ubermensche Jones and Joe Blackface), and a return to the unfinished Rodent book. Not much to go on yet. And too many other assaults upon my time.

Don't ever buy the lime flavored Tostitos. They're like Doritos but instead of nacho cheese powder they've got *lime* powder on them. It's difficult to remove it too, it's like verdigris, like rust, like a layer of hoary moss on my corn chip. I want my corn chip untainted!

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--blue oyster cult

By far the dirtiest, dumbest, nastiest things on earth are Elves. These are the creepy little creatures Santa's got hammering tin for him in his North Pole sweatshops, the kind you didn't really believe in, that you thought were fantasy and children's stories. They're real--but there's a good reason for keeping them all so far up north: they just don't get along with decent folk.

There was a time not too long ago when the Elves roamed freely about in the warm lands, down where we all live, and really did little but cause trouble. You've heard the old stories about gremlins on airplanes, bogeymen in closets? Those were Elves. Leprechauns, little people living in sewers, on rooftops, in the pipes and behind the walls, under the ground, in the trees, behind famous paintings and inside famous people...? All Elves.

They would wreak havoc on human beings, stealing precious items from them, breaking fragile things, biting them on their knees. They would drain the water from fire plugs. They would fill gasoline tanks with cement. They would climb into sugar bowls and leave dirty little nuggets behind. They would chew through electrical wiring in order to cause fires. If they somehow got into your home, you were as good as moving out already. It got so bad one summer in South London that people refused to open their doors and risk letting them in; scores of the elderly died from heat exhaustion, so afraid of the little people they baked to death behind barred doors and windows nailed shut.

So the League of Nations--that's what they called the UN before rearranging things to better suit the oil companies--they passed a consensus vote to officially declare the Elves vermin, and thereby give nations the right to exterminate them in the same manner as rats and cockroaches. But Kris Kringle, who you probably know better as Santa Clause (which is another story entirely) stood up inside the Visitor's Gallery and requested to be heard. In those days, it was customary that a visitor could have his say before any consensus vote was to be ratified (remember, this was back before know-it-alls started disrupting every little thing and forcing organizations to impose stricter rules), and since every nation in the League knew who old Kringle was (who was old even in those days), his testimony was attended to carefully.

Kringle said, "Let me have the little buggers. I'll take 'em all up north with me and put 'em to some use. Keep 'em away from everybody. Better that than genocide, right?"

Now this was a relatively uncommon word back then, what with the Germans only causing a medium scale of havoc at the time, the war against the native American populations still thoroughly glossed over in history books, and non-western nations not having much of a part yet in the construction of history, but it was still a strong enough word to cause some twitching eyelids and diverted gazes. Finally, the secretary-general of the League took the podium, a man by the name of Sir Eric Drummond, and said to Kringle and the rest of the assembled League and visitors, "Klaus, may I ask what exactly you intend to do with the Elves?"

Kringle paused before responding, being a thoughtful old man complete with spectacles and a white beard, rosy cheeks and a complete list of names. "I will have them benefit society rather than prey upon it," he said. "I will have them build toys for the tots of the world, which I will then distribute annually on some mutually agreed upon evening."

There was a bit of a murmur in the audience then, as the heads of the Heads of State ruminated upon the prospect of returning something unexpected and beneficial to their constituencies. "You are certain of the Elves' potential for such work?" asked Frijthof Nansen, although it must be admitted that his accent made it difficult to understand him. "What if they cannot do as you require?"

"Yeah, Kringle, what then?" echoed a few others indignantly, as if they themselves had not just agreed to exterminate the Elves without delay.

Kringle, all adorned in the uniform of his vocation (toy-maker, cookie-muncher, and occasional house-invader), laughed warmly and showed the many there assembled that famous twinkle in his eyes. "Why in that case," he told them, "I'll just kill them all myself! At least they'll all be in one place for it."

And so it was agreed to round up the Elves at once, and to spare no expense or effort in doing so, so that they might be exported to Kringle's newly granted property at the North Pole. All the countries of the League, and even a few outside of it, participated with great enthusiasm. This was later known as World War Two.

Finally, after many years of struggle, all the Elves had been gathered and exiled, and Kringle had set up his workshop there on the frigid tundra of the North Pole. And to this day he has kept his agreement with the League of Nations, even after the dissolution of that august body: to keep the Elves confined to the northlands in exchange for one night a year in which to go rampaging through all the lands of the south, distributing toys, eating cookies, and watching people sleep.