Secret Report: Cedric Bigglestone exposes the pure evil behind the “Elf on the Shelf.”

A captured elf is interrogated.

In the most explosive exposé of his career, the Intergalactic Business Report’s Cedric Bigglestone investigates the “Elf on the Shelf” craze and the evil behind it. What he finds will change the way you see Christmas itself.
 
Part one: My curiosity piques* when I see a “garbage elf.”
Strolling through my neighborhood** I notice a pile of garbage, which I quickly sift through for ancient coins and haberdashery. I find no treasures, but do see an old “Elf on the Shelf,” which has been tossed out. What stuns me, however, is that it has a knife stuck in it, as if someone stabbed it again and again, maybe in self-defense? I remove the knife and pocket the elf. The owner of the nearby house (and of the elf?) appears and threatens to call law enforcement. I ask him about the elf and he becomes enraged—too enraged, I consider, as I hold the doll forward and shake it at him. When I show him the knife, his attitude changes from anger to conciliation and he steps away from me almost in… Fear? Does this elf have some kind of power over him?
 
Part two: I take the elf back to my apartment.
“Why would anyone want to stab an Elf on the Shelf?” I ask myself as I prepare a meal of sardines and head cheese for my cat, Herr Viskers. As Herr Viskers and I sit down to eat our feast, I notice the miserable elf, sitting alone on my couch. Should I invite him to eat with us?
 
Part three: I invite the elf to eat with us.
I say to the elf, “Hey, man. You want some food?” To sell it a little more, I add, “It’s good.” The elf sits in silence. “You’ve got nothing to say?” I ask, mockingly. Herr Viskers purrs with delight at the epic burn I’ve dropped upon the silly elf. But I have no time to gloat. I place the elf in the open chair reserved for Jeff Goldbloom*** and my mind races. I feel like I’ve captured a Nazi and now it is my duty to interrogate him.
 
Part four: Some background on the “Elf on the Shelf” menace.
I do a little research on the elf and confirm what I already knew—that a company manufactures these dolls to spy on children for Santa Claus. The elf hides in your home and silently judges the behavior of the children present. Then he takes off at night and narcs on them to Santa. The elf, in other words, doesn’t like to do a lot of talking till he opens his bitch-ass mouth to his boss in the North Pole. Then he has a lot to say. 
 
Part five: Back to my dinner.
The elf is a terrible guest. He doesn’t eat the food and he just sits there, judging me and Herr Viskers. Herr Viskers requests that I give the elf over to him as a toy because the cat is always fucking with my mind and I almost give in to him before I remember that the elf is part of an exposé I am writing. To offer him up to Herr Viskers would immediately end the elf’s usefulness to me, as Herr Viskers is a cruel toy owner and would surely hide the elf’s body somewhere under a bed. 
 
Part six: I ask the elf some tough questions.
With Herr Viskers lurking nearby as a warning to the elf, I sit him down on a couch and grill him for answers. I begin with the obvious, like, “How’s it feel to have someone else do the judgin’?” And then I move on to the more complex, nuanced questions, such as, “Do you have an elf dick?” and “Do you have magic that can burn me?”
 
Part seven: The elf resists all inquiry.
I have to admit, the elf is tough. He says nothing no matter how I attempt to mind fuck him. At one point, I dress as Santa and enter the room and tell him he’s passed a test and that it was great that he didn’t crack. Then I ask him for info on how many children he’s spied on in his career and if he has an elf dick. He doesn’t fall for it. Evil Santa must be pleased with his minion.
 
Part eight: I stab the elf in frustration.
I’m not proud of this last part but it turns out that I was the one who stabbed the elf in the first place and then placed him in a garbage pile in my very nice, exclusive neighborhood**. I also ending up giving him to Herr Viskers, who I think is fucking him, but I’m not sure because they do it under my bed. 
 
Part nine: I’m done writing now. Good bye.
I’m done writing now. Good bye.
 
*What the fuck does this word mean?
** Someone else’s neighborhood.
*** It’s still here for you, Jeff. Please join us. Just one time. Please.

 
Cedric Bigglestone is a self-taught journalist who exposes things through exposés. Contact him at [email protected].

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