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Donner. Poor, poor Donner.

Donner (sometimes Donder, Dunder, or Bumblefuck) is, by all accounts, the least popular reindeer ever to bear the daunting, arduous task of ushering Santa Claus around the world. In fact, next to Comet and Vixen, Donner is the most oft-forgot reindeer in Santa's gaggle of animal laborers. Despite his questionable standing among the wildlife of the North Pole (due mainly to his excessive gambling addiction and seething hatred for his fellow reindeer), Donner was always known as a quiet servant of St. Nicholas. He kept that uneasy reputation for the majority of his life, despite a sickening, sinister urge which manifested itself in the pit of his stomach every holiday season (and most off-seasons, also). An urge to make them all pay.

The Early Years

From his earliest years, it was obvious to the flora and fauna of the Northern most region that Donner was unlike his fellow reindeer. Like his more famous colleague Rudolph, Donner was generally excluded from most reindeer games, family functions, weddings, and bar-mitzvahs. This came as an ever-present shock, for unlike Rudolph, Donner had no noticeable genetic birth defects. Regardless, his baseless fate as an outcast haunted the young buck, sending him into the darkened, lonesome depths of introspection. While the other reindeer would pal around and jest over a riveting game of Monopoly, Donner would pen angst-ridden poetry, desperately attempting to become a modern, venison-based Edgar Allen Poe. Unfortunately, his hooves quelled any hope of legible writing.

Although he was too poor to afford proper utensils, young Donner had a great passion for cooking. Before being enlisted as a Knight in Santa's Service, Donner aspired towards enrollment at the North Pole Culinary Arts Academy -- though like most of the lad's pipe dreams, his grade point average proved to be too low for admittance.[1]

In his 15th year, Donner made a conscious decision to attend Dasher's annual Midyear Luau Birthday Bash Extravaganza Party Get-Together. The invitation-only black-tie event was known throughout the tundras as the definitive in-crowd gathering. And although his tuxedo was firmly pressed and his antlers freshly trimmed, the socially awkward Donner was humiliated like Carrie White and cast off into the frigid July wind. Eternally dejected, Donner was left with two options: suicide, or The SantaCorps.

Donner (back left), plotting his revenge in his second year of service. Poor, poor Donner.

Life in the Barracks

As a soldier in General Santa's frontline defense unit (also known as Sleigh Force One), Donner was in an unnatural and altogether insane predicament. For not only was he trained to defend Santa's mobile gift-dispensing unit with blunt, deadly force, but he was made to defend his craft alongside those whom he considered mortal enemies. Dasher: the vermin. Cupid: the swine. Prancer: the gay one.

It was under these conditions that Donner developed his aforementioned addiction to high-stakes roulette, which cost him nearly every red cent he'd accrued pulling odd jobs while wondering the ice fields. His habit became so severe that his only vacation (to Davie, Florida's Seminole Hard Rock Casino) was marred by a forceful removal from the craps isle. "I'VE GOT CREDIT!" Donner cried. "I'M A GOD DAMN VETERAN YOU EVIL SONSABITCHES!" Donner vowed never to step foot in a redman's establishment from that day forward.

But independent of his ill proclivities, no hatred was as passionate, as intensely fiery, as Donner's animosity towards the former pariah turned international celebrity. The phenomenon.

The Red-Nosed Traitor

Donner harbored a special brand of loathing for Rudolph. Rudolph, who had once been a pillar of strength in the loner reindeer community, rose to fame, fortune and popularity seemingly overnight. No, actually quite literally overnight. For one foggy Christmas Eve, amidst the culmination of a twelve-day drinking binge, Emperor Santa called upon the facially-deformed Rudolph in a fit of last-resortedness. "RUDULF!" exclaimed the rosy-cheeked drunkard in the bright red suit, "IS FOGGY BUDDY! YOU'RE FUNNA GUIDE THISH SLED OR MY NAME AINT THE FUGKIN EASTER BUNNY!"[2]

Needless to say, Rudolph and his grotesque nasal anomaly became legendary that Christmas, and a household name for every Christmas thereafter. And for Donner, a seemingly ordinary land mammal with no good reason to be disliked by every creature inhabiting the North Pole, the pain onset by his deranged jealousy was a burden too great to bear. That Christmas, Donner made a violent, sickening promise to himself, and to every disregarded reindeer to come: a vow of murder most foul.

Image Courtesy of the North Pole Municipal Police File - Case #045: The Donner Party.

Report Comment: Poor, poor Donner.

The Donner Party

Like every gawky, infantile adult, Donner had long previously acquired a masterful understanding of the internet. So much so, that a sinister plan for unbridled mayhem was all-too-simple for the tech-savvy reprobate. Under an assumed identity, Donner sent a mass invitation to every member of the Kris Kringle Militia. An invite to the reindeer party of the century. His false character, B. Cool Spaulding promised "the most ROCKIN'EST, the most ROLLIN'EST, the most OUT OF CONTROLLIN'EST party ever thrown by a caribou!" Naturally, Comet, Blitzen, and the rest of the crew were the earliest of RSVPs.

One by one, Donner's fellow sleigh-jockeys entered the abandoned warehouse rented specifically for the main event. Once all had gathered, the lights dimmed, and the doors locked. Donner took center stage. A camera phone belonging to one of the party-goers captured his dastardly monologue:

All my life, you have tormented me. All my life, you have swept me under the rug like a dead insect! AND I'M NOT EVEN THAT WEIRD! Vixen, oh yeah everyone loves a slut, and Dancer, no one minds that you shake your deer-tits on stage for beer money, but ME, a guy who is actually a really cool person, gets CAST ASUNDER! ALL I WANTED WAS TO PLAY SOME FUCKING MONOPOLY YOU BASTARDS!

Amidst a crowd of blood-curdling screams, Donner cocked a semi-automatic rifle and began mercilessly spraying his peers with bullet after cold, unforgiving bullet. And once the last shell dropped, every heartless, four-chamber-stomached nemesis was sprawled upon the warehouse floor. The power was glorious; it drew Donner in with reckless delight. In a manic haze, Donner took part in the element that made his party so notorious: Donner began to eat, ney, feast upon, his fellow Rangifer tarandus. A most calamitous display of putrid cannibalism. When all was said and done, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Blitzen, and even Rudolph were snuffed like wintertime streetlights, each gnawed into tiny pieces.

After a number of hours reveling in the grandeur of his triumph, reality finally set in for the deranged, murdering outsider. With a specially concocted vial of poisoned egg-nog, Donner ended his own life among his slain kinsman. And so did end the era of the 9-Deer Sinterklaas Team.


Ever the sly businessman,[3] Czar Sandy Claws vowed to continue Christmas as scheduled. Distressed but not deterred, makeshift mechanical navigators were constructed in lieu of live reindeer. The next season, open calls were held to cast a new set of sleigh-runners in an American Idol-style competition. And at the end of a 4-month, critically acclaimed televised contest (complete with commercial sponsorship, of course), a new set of stylish, sexy reindeer were inducted as Santa's new workforce.

But every year, a candlelight vigil is held at Santa's Workshop in remembrance of the original reindeer brigade, so savagely slain in cold blood. But no candle is lit for Donner: no one ever liked that asshole.


  1. Little Known Fact: Donner was crowned North Pole Arugula King for the year of 1998. Unfortunately, nobody cared.
  2. Little Known Fact: Santa Claus's real name is, in fact, Easter Persephone Bunny. He was named after his great grandmother, but renounced the name for business purposes.
  3. Little Known Fact: At the time of the Donner party, Santa owned 46% of Wal-Mart's stock. Now that's ingenuity!

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