It could be worse. It could be a David-In-The-Dreidel
"I just don't see what's so wrong with being named Charlie," said Charlie-in-the-box, gazing moodily over the snow. "They could call me Chaz. Or no, better, Chuck. Then it would be 'Chuck-in-the-box', which sounds almost exactly the same."
Yukon Cornelius clapped him on the back. "That's the spirit, Chuck!"
Santa, coming up from behind Charlie on the road from the palace, sneered. "Stop kidding yourself, Chuck," he said. "Or should I say Chaim? Your name isn't why nobody will play with you."
The other toys crept up close, as they always did when Santa was near. "What are you talking about?" asked the elephant.
Santa wrapped one arm around Charlie's shoulders, ignoring Charlie's attempts to cringe away from him. "Didn't you know? Our springy friend here is a member of the Tribe of Israel. He doesn't even believe in Christmas."
The toys drew back in horror.
Charlie sighed. "That's stupid," he said. "Of course I believe in Christmas. How could I not believe in Christmas when I've got Santa Claus practically strangling me?"
"Ah," said Santa, conspiratorially. "But you don't celebrate it, do you?"
Charlie seemed to shrink in upon himself, his spring compressing as he cowered. "There's a lot of things I don't celebrate," he muttered, speaking into his own chest. "I don't celebrate Ramadan. Or Rudolph's birthday. Or Canada Day. Why is it okay that I don't celebrate those things but not that I don't celebrate Christmas?"
Santa drew his arm tighter until Charlie's face was practically touching his own. Santa's fetid breath, rank with the smell of onions and December ale, formed a foul miasma which made it difficult for Charlie to inhale. "You can celebrate whatever you want, Herschel-In-The-Box," he said. "And I'm going to celebrate by kicking some Jewboy ass."
He drew back one meaty fist while Charlie cowered. None of the other toys would interfere; even if Santa hadn't already turned them all against Charlie with his revelation, Santa was a mean drunk in the off season and it was more than a toy's stuffing was worth to get between Santa on a rage and his target. But as Santa's fist lowered, it stopped, abruptly arrested in midair. Charlie looked in awe at the white furry paw which wrapped around Santa's wrist.
"Bumble, you idiot," said Santa. "What the fuck do you want?"
The Abominable Snowman only smiled toothlessly and bent Santa's wrist back, back, back until Santa first cringed and finally cried out. "Why don't you go play with your elves," Bumble suggested. He let go of Santa's wrist and crossed his arms meaningfully.
Santa glared. "I know somebody who's getting coal in his stocking this year," he said.
"Who cares?" asked Bumble. "We can play dreidel instead."
"Actually," whispered Charlie. "Dreidel is a pretty stupid game."
"Shh," said Bumble, and punched Charlie in the arm, grinning.
