#this took me like an hour if it doesn't go viral please kill me

[kentucky-fried-thea]

Are Santa's elves being abused?

@cuntvonkrolock and I got into a friendly argument over whether or not Santa was an abusive boss.

Victor's argument was that the elves could not possibly make enough gifts a year, as there are 8 billion people on the planet, and even if he was using Christmas Magic, that would be use of performance enhancing drugs, and therefore still not ok.

My argument was that it entirely depends on how many elves Santa actually has.

Well, I'm autistic, and have taken math through calculus, so I decided to crunch the numbers.

Victor googled it, and apparently Santa has around 110,000 elves. The linked article also states that calculations have been done surrounding this problem, but the calculations are quite flawed in that they are missing some very large numbers.

We decided that around age 15 was when you started receiving gifts not from Santa, but from your guardians, so that is the number we are using.

A quick google search says that there are about 2 billion kids 14 and under on the planet. Now, not all of those kids celebrate Christmas.

According to reindeerland.org, only about 32% of people actually celebrate Christmas. That means that the number of children receiving gifts is now whittled down to 32% of 2 billion: 640 million.

But some kids don't believe in Santa at all, and just get their gifts from loved ones. Google says that about 83% of kids are taught to believe in Santa, so we can shave off 27%. That leaves us with 531,200,000 kids.

But, that doesn't take into account the Naughty List.

You can find Santa's official Naughty and Nice List on the official website for the Department of Christmas Affairs. My autism knows no bounds, so in order to get a full count of how many kids are on the Naughty List, I scrolled through the entire List, ensuring that every name had loaded, and did a search command for how many times the word 'Naughty' was mentioned. I also found some very interesting names along the way.

Exactly 31,700 names are on the List, with each name only occurring once. Exactly 15,350 of these names were on the Naughty List. The word Naughty no longer looks like a word.

Since each name was only listed once, it is obvious that this is a general approximation for the amount of children on the Naughty List. The approximation being, 48.4227129% of children are on the Naughty List. I am never typing the word Naughty again.

Now, we know that 48.4227129% of 531,200,000 is 257,221,450.925 and that 531,200,000 - 257,221,450.925 = 273,978,549.075. Therefore, that is the number of kids receiving gifts from Santa.

Time to bring back my first number, 110,000 elves. 273,978,549.075/110,000 = 2,490.7140825, which gives us about how many gifts an elf makes a year. You should work around 260 days in a year to have a healthy life, so we can divide that by 260.

2,490.7140825/260 = 9.57966954808, which we can round up to 10.

Therefore, in a day, an elf must make around ten gifts.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The Lost Cause prologue, part III

I'm coming to Minneapolis! Oct 15: Presenting The Internet Con at Moon Palace Books. Oct 16: Keynoting the 26th ACM Conference On Computer-Supported Cooperative Work and Social Computing.

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a solarpunk adventure about "the first generation in a century that doesn't fear the future." It comes out on Nov 14, and its early fans include Naomi Klein:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865939/the-lost-cause

Amazon won't sell my audiobooks, so I made my own, doing the narration this time around. I'm running a Kickstarter campaign to pre-sell the audiobook, ebook and hardcovers, including signed, personalized hardcovers – I hope you'll consider backing it:

http://lost-cause.org/

This week, I'm serializing the prologue to the book.

Here's part one:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/06/green-new-deal-fic/#the-first-generation-in-a-century-not-to-fear-the-future

And part two:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/07/met-cute-ugly/#part-ii

I woke at noon, the house hot because Gramps had left the blinds up in the front room, and ever since the big live oak had been cut up and taken away for blight, we’d lost its shade.

I used the bathroom, pulled on shorts and a tee, and went looking for breakfast, or brunch, or whatever.

“Gramps?”

He didn’t answer. That was weird. Gramps was a late riser and he rarely got up before ten, and then he took a long time to get going, listening to his podcasts and drinking coffee and sending memes around to his buddies with his giant tablet, with the type zoomed way, way up. He didn’t like going out in the heat, either, so in the summer he rarely left the house before four or five, once the sun was low to the hills. He’d left his coffee cup in the sink and his tablet on the table, so I knew he’d gone in a hurry. He hated dirty dishes and hated dead batteries even more.

I put his stuff away and thawed out some waffles and got a big iced coffee from the cold-­brew jug I kept in the fridge and started the process of becoming human.

I gobbled my first waffle before the emotional weight of the previous night settled on me. Those emotions were way too big, so big that they all layered on top of each other, leaving me with nothing but numbness.

I did the reflex thing and pulled out my screen, giving myself a brief sear of shame for my mindless screen-­handling, just as I’d been trained to do in mindfulness class. That was enough to prompt me to run through the checklist: Do I need to look at my screen? Do I need to look at it now? What do I hope to find? When will I be done? I answered the questions (Yes, yes, news about last night, when I’ve looked at two or three stories), and then unlocked it, but didn’t look at it until I’d poured myself another glass of coffee.

Two hours later, there was no coffee left and my eyes hurt from screenburn. I dropped my screen, came out of my trance, and stood up.

I’d gone viral. Or rather, Mike had.

My post had been picked up, first in Burbank, then statewide, then nationally, then internationally. Amateur comedians had edited the footage into highlight reels, moments chosen to demonstrate just how idiotic and hateful he was. Someone made a White Nationalist Bingo Card whose every square had a quote from Mike Kennedy. There were lots of jokes about inbreeding, hillbillies, musket-­fuckers and ammosexuals, master race masturbation, senility, removable boomers—­all the age-­and class-­ based slurs that we weren’t allowed to say in school, but that everyone busted out as soon as we were off the property. It was pretty gross, but on the other hand, I couldn’t exactly argue with them. Bottom line was, Mike Kennedy had been up on that roof for no good reason, and he’d been ready to kill me to let him finish his stupid, senseless project. So yeah, fuck that guy. I guess.

I was pleased to see that I came off as a hero, with strangers around the world praising me for my cool head, saying I’d saved his life.

I put my plate in the dishwasher and wiped up my crumbs and checked the clock on the kitchen wall—­I’d always loved its plain analog face with its thick and thin lines, the yellowing AC cord that came off it. It had belonged to Gramps’s own parents, and it was the only thing in the house I considered anything like an heirloom.

It was coming up on one and if I showered fast and ran, I could make my physics class. I decided to go for it, had the fastest shower in history, pulled on whatever was on the top of my dresser drawers, and sprinted for the street.

I was just jogging up to the entrance to Burroughs when I got a screen chime, which stopped me because, like all the students, I’d installed the school app that turned off audible alarms while I was on property during school hours. It wasn’t mandatory, but the punishment for having an alarm in class was confiscation, so . . .

I pulled out my screen as I panted by the doorway, mopping my face with my shirttail. It was a text from Burbank PD, informing me that Mike Kennedy was headed for a bail hearing in two hours, and I was entitled to present a victim impact statement, either recorded or in person. I’d known that the police could override the school app (there was a kid in my class whose parole office sometimes paged him, and the fact that he audibly dinged was just part of the package, I figured—­a way to remind us all that this kid had fucked up bad), but I hadn’t expected them to ping me, let alone on school property.

I tapped out a quick thanks-­no-­thanks, and headed to physics.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/09/working-the-refs/#lost-cause-prologue

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!