Santa was also blind-drunk.

Eight tiny reindeer had apparently kicked the living shit out of him and did a real  number on his leg. So did a fifth of Jim Beam mixed with eggnog.

The ermergency tones sounded, alerting us that a patient was enroute to our hospital.  The man in question was in his sixties or seventies.  He had broken his right leg.  The man was conscious, thank goodnesss, but he proved to be extremely belligerent and loud-mouthed, according to the paramedics who had arrived on scene.  The man yowled and screamed obscenities at the paramedics; he was not acting like the typical Jolly Old Elf at all.

Santa refused to be treated, but the paramedics had no choice: the man's leg was swelling fast, and, no doubt, turning many pretty colors by now.  The paramedics quickly, but efficiently, splinted the fellow's leg and placed him on a waiting stretcher bed and took him to the waiting ambulance. 

All the while, Santa let out a stream of curse words that would have made a Catholic nun blush with shame.  

We who were in the ER department at the time could hear Santa bellowing his disapproval before we first set eyes upon him.  He was as nasty (and as drunk) as ever, the paramedics told us.

We knew we had to try to reason with Santa and try to treat his leg, but whenever we tried to approach him, he screamed even louder, flailiing his arms and uninjured leg.  That was when the doctor-in-charge of the Emergency Department suggested that we give him a shot of Vitamin-H (Haldol) to calm him down.  (Once the medication took effect, Santa's eyes rolled back into his head and he went as limp as my Ragdoll kiten back home.)  

The doctor quickly put a tube up the man's nose (the tube, a nasogastric, or NG tube, would go directly to his stomach, to flush out any remaining liquids or food, so he wouldn't choke or vomit during surgery); another doctor inserted a catheter into his bladder.  This was after the man's clothes had been wearing had been cut off of him.  

Then he would be off to emergency surgery.  According to X-rays, his leg was a mess:  he had three fractures involving his femur, knee cap, and ankle.

Santa would most likely not be making any deliveries come Christmas Eve night.  After his surgery, he would spend Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and probbly New Years (and several days past that) recovering from his surgery adn broken right leg.  He would probably be hobbling around on a pair of crutches for up to eight weeks.  

Santa would be grounded for a while.

It was pretty funny in a way, but on the other hand, it was also sad.  Very sad, in fact.  It always is whenever alcohol is involved.