As Holiday shopping heats up at Cordarounds.com, our romantic spokesman is defending women's honor in the coldest of climes. Yes, it's time to gather your coworkers around the monitor, break open the Scotch, and enjoy the latest installment of LAZENBY SLEIGHS SANTA.

Imagine the fury of Lazenby – noble and handsome horseman, protector of virtue extraordinaire, spokesman for Cordarounds’ fine women’s attire – upon learning of the wretched, sweaty depredations visited upon the silky smoothness of Mrs. Veronica Higginbotham of Meadowview, Ohio, by none other than Santa Claus!  She would be the last flower to be trampled by this avatar of avuncular putridity in red velvet, this bearded, ruddy-cheeked cad that descends from the northernmost climes every Christmas Eve, ostensibly to deliver gifts of good tiding to the children of the world.  Nay, it is but an excuse for his dastardly leering and heavy breathing and pinching of ladies’ buttocks.

Lazenby resolved to stop the monster at all cost!

Alighting on his mighty steed, Lazenby did gallop north from San Francisco, across the Sierra Nevada, across the windswept plains of Canada, and far into the frozen north.  After galloping for many bitter days and nights, Lazenby did spy through the winter gloaming many drifts of once-virgin snow, cut by rivulets of blood.  Soon he came upon the source of the gore: carcasses of seals and narwhals and all manner of Arctic beast, worked to their deaths in Santa’s abominable workshop and discarded on the icy tundra.  The crisp air now grew thick with smoke and the odor of grease, and Lazenby and his steed knew that danger was surely afoot!  Finally, they arrived at Santa’s abode – not the charming cottage of lore, but an icy fortress, ringed by a moat of boiling oil, patrolled by horrible, bellowing walruses clad in leather vests and chain mail, their tusks sharpened like daggers!

The manner in which our hero secreted himself inside this house of doom is long and tedious; suffice it to say, Lazenby found himself face to face with the despicable Kringle and his garrison of bloodthirsty elves, their pointy boots jingling menacingly with every step they took toward our hero.  Above them swung a cage filled with whimpering Romanian prostitutes, whom the elves had spirited out of Bucharest to quench Un-saintly Nick’s vast array of perversions.  “Fear not,” Lazenby said, addressing the maidens in his best Romanian. “You shall not drown in this Arctic hell-broth so long as dear Lazenby has words to the contrary.  Înainte!”

“Fiend!” cried Lazenby, unsheathing his gleaming scimitar and setting his unwavering gaze upon Claus.  “Wretched, corpulent defiler!  Upon my blade you shall now rest most uncomfortably!”

Santa issued forth a deep and evil laugh.  “Ho, ho, ho, Lazenby,” he said, saliva glistening on his terrible beard.  “I shall enjoy watching you die before I embark upon another Christmas Eve of debauchery!”  Santa drew from beneath his suit a silver whistle, into which he blew a strange and foreboding note.  The floor shook beneath Lazenby’s feet.

“What manner of evil is this now, wretched Claus?” cried Lazenby.  Suddenly, a great Orca exploded through the ice and clasp Lazenby in its jaws, dragging him down to the frozen depths!

“Goodbye, Lazenby” Santa said.  “Goodbye forever!”


IS THIS REALLY THE END FOR DEAR LAZENBY? WILL SANTA’S REIGN OF TERROR CONTINUE YET ANOTHER YEAR?  FIND OUT NEXT WEEK!