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Jim was po'd: as po'd as a dwarf in a crowded elevator car at an all-male nudist colony -- of that there was no doubt. It was Christmas Eve, and Jim (a buffet cook at a Strip hotel) was scheduled to work swing shift Christmas Day.

Jim hated working holidays; Christmas especially: mom and dad and the kiddies all gorging themselves on the feast he'd slaved to prepare: turkey with chestnut stuffing; candied yams; green beans almondine . . . not to mention the pecan pie. There'd be no feast for him. The menu in the employee dining room was always the same -- Christmas or no: cheese enchiladas and lime Jell-O with whipped cream. Enough to gag a maggot.

What a life! Another year gone. Another -- equally as disappointing -- soon to begin. How had things gone so wrong? In his youth, Jim had dreamed of becoming a world famous chef; opening his own restaurant where he'd greet celebrities eager to shower praise upon him for his culinary prowess: movie stars; athletes; models in slinky, low-cut dresses. Here he was, crowding sixty; working at a lousy buffet and living in a crummy, rundown apartment complex on the outskirts of town: his neighbors misfits and rejects; the flotsam & jetsam of the Vegas backwash -- like him.

He'd dozed off on the sofa with a can of beer while watching TV. Suddenly he was awakened by a violent pounding. At first he thought it was the old guy in the apartment upstairs. Always that infernal clopping sound overhead -- as if the old boy was doing step aerobics in weighted diving boots. The front door was thrown open, and there before him, stood the ghost of Shorty Bimstein -- a former cook at the hotel. He was dragging a bunch of saute pans fixed to a chain, and wore a colander on his head.

"Shorty . . . is it really you?"

"Yeah, it's me. Y'know anyone else useta wear a colander on his head?"

"You always were a card . . . but Shorty, what are you doin' here -- why have you come back?"

"Because we were such close friends and colleagues in life, I come ta bring ya a warnin' from the udder side."

"But we weren't close friends. I couldn't stand you."

"We sat together in the lunch room every day for twenty-five years."

"Yeah -- but only because you let me have the whipped cream from your Jell-O. You were lactose intolerant -- remember?"

"Be that as it may, I come ta tell ya that tanight you'll be visited by tree ghosts: Elvis, Liberace, and Frank Sinatra."

"NO SHIT!!!"

Shorty's ghost guffawed and rattled his saute pans.

"Nah! I'm just bustin' on ya! . . . It's only me."

"Now I rememeber why I couldn't stand you."

"Alright, so's we weren't pals. But I come back anyways to save you from my wretched fate . . . to warn you if ya don't clean up yer act -- stop bein' a turd in the punch bowl -- you'll be draggin' saute pans an' wearin' a colander on yer head."

"But Shorty, life sucks and I hate Christmas. Whattaya want me to do? Run around hollerin' 'HO, HO, HO' like I got a thumb stuck up my ass?"

"Ever occur ta you that maybe yer so miserable cuz ya only think a yerself? Why doncha try bein' nice ta yer neighbor upstairs, 'stead a complainin' ta the manager 'bout 'im alla time?"

"You try sleepin' with that racket. Besides, I'm sure he does it on purpose."

"The ol' guy's got a wooden leg and a overactive bladder. That racket ya hear is him hobblin' back 'n' forth ta the john all night."

"Shorty, you sure have changed since you dropped dead. I remember the way you useta cuss out the servers -- you were a real terror!"

"Yeah, an' look what it got me. I'm warnin' ya, if ya don't turn the leaf, start appreaciatin' the beauty a life, you're doomed -- just like yours truly."

"Maybe you're right, Shorty. Know what? I'm gonna call out sick tomorrow. Take the day off. Get me onea those microwave turkey dinners at Walgreens -- maybe a frozen pumpkin pie . . . and a mini, plug-in Christmas tree . . . yeah! They're showin' 'A Christmas Carol' all day on onea the cable stations -- I love that flick!"

"That's the spirit! Look, I gotta be pushin' along now -- I still gotta drop in on Donald Trump. You take care Jim, and have a merry Christmas!"

"You too Shorty -- and thanks!"

Jim watched Shorty's ghost float out the door and disappear into the dark chill of the Las Vegas night. A light snow was falling, and the moon winked from behind a passing cloud. Life sure was beautiful!

Back inside, Jim cranked up the fireplace and cracked open another beer. Tomorrow he'd buy two microwave turkey dinners and invite ol' peg leg down for Christmas dinner ... why not!?

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!! ... 🎅🎄🎁☃️