Grinch

by Bill Tiepelman

Tinsel Trouble in Training

Deep in the heart of Whoville—or more accurately, just outside its limits where the municipal garbage dump meets the forest—there sat a creature of pint-sized chaos. Dressed like an elf in garish red and green, with candy cane socks twisted in mismatched directions, this furry green menace was not Santa’s helper. Oh no. This was Junior Grinch, a self-declared professional mischief-maker still perfecting his craft. Junior wasn’t the Grinch you’ve heard about, no. He was his protégé. A creature so devious, so full of bad holiday spirit, that he could make a snowman blush with shame. Today, he was working on his masterpiece: Operation Wreck Christmas Eve. The Plan of Pure Chaos Junior sat cross-legged on a pile of discarded Christmas decorations, his little green face scrunched into an intense scowl. He flipped through a tattered notebook labeled “How to Ruin Joy (Beginner’s Edition).” Step 1: Replace Christmas carols with a mixtape of crying babies. Step 2: Sneak into homes and replace milk and cookies with oat milk and stale crackers. Step 3: Wrap presents in duct tape and broken dreams. Step 4: Rig the Christmas lights to spell out obscenities in Morse code. “Perfect,” he muttered, licking a peppermint candy he’d stolen earlier, then sticking it in his ear for no apparent reason. “This’ll teach those Whos to celebrate their stupid holly jolly nonsense.” The Execution Begins With his notebook under one arm and a sack full of counterfeit tinsel under the other, Junior Grinch tiptoed into the village. His first stop: Mayor Whoopity-Do’s house, the most obnoxiously festive home in town. The lawn was a glowing nightmare of animatronic reindeer, a 15-foot inflatable Santa, and lights so bright they could be seen from space. “Overcompensating much?” Junior sneered as he slithered up to the porch, which was covered in garlands that reeked of cinnamon potpourri. He whipped out a can of spray paint and got to work, defacing the decorations with some truly creative profanity. On the inflatable Santa’s belly, he scrawled: “Santa’s on Strike. Deal With It.” Next, he turned his attention to the reindeer. Using a pair of scissors, he snipped off Rudolph’s nose bulb and swapped it with a blinking hazard light he’d “borrowed” from a construction site. “Let’s see them sing about that,” he chuckled darkly. Chaos Meets Consequence By the time Junior reached his third house, his sack was full of stolen ornaments, half-eaten gingerbread cookies, and an alarming number of slightly chewed candy canes. “I am a genius,” he whispered to himself, admiring his reflection in a broken Christmas bulb. But as he crept into another house, something unexpected happened. A toddler in fuzzy pajamas waddled into the room, rubbing her sleepy eyes. She stared at Junior for a long moment, then, with the kind of confidence only a sugar-high child could muster, shouted, “Santa’s a goblin!” Junior froze. “I’m not—well, okay, maybe. But go back to bed, tiny human.” “No,” she replied, stomping her foot. “Santa brings me good presents. You bring poop presents.” “They’re not poop presents!” Junior hissed, clutching his sack defensively. “They’re just...creative.” Before he could explain himself further, the toddler screamed at the top of her lungs. Within seconds, the house was awake, and Junior was surrounded by angry adults wielding rolling pins and oven mitts. A Grinch’s Retreat Junior barely escaped with his fur intact, sprinting back to the forest as a chorus of outraged Whos shouted after him. He dove into his hideout, panting and clutching his stolen sack. “Stupid Whos,” he muttered. “They wouldn’t know good sabotage if it bit them on their candy canes.” He dumped the contents of the sack onto the floor. Out rolled a mix of glitter, tangled lights, and one suspiciously sticky gingerbread man. “Fine,” he grumbled. “This year was just a warm-up. Next year, I’ll really ruin Christmas.” The Moral of the Story (or Lack Thereof) So what’s the takeaway? Maybe it’s that mischief doesn’t pay. Maybe it’s that toddlers are terrifying. Or maybe it’s that if you’re going to sabotage Christmas, at least invest in better snacks. Either way, Junior Grinch is out there, plotting his next move. And who knows? Next year, he might even get it right. Until then, keep your lights untangled, your cookies hidden, and your inflatable Santas locked up tight. You never know when Junior might strike again.     Looking to own a piece of mischievous holiday spirit? This image, titled "Tinsel Trouble in Training", is available for prints, downloads, and licensing through our Image Archive. Add a touch of humor and grinchy charm to your holiday decor or collection! View and purchase this artwork in our archive here.     The Grinch Who Stole Your Last Nerve 'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the flat, Not a creature was stirring—except that green brat. A pint-sized terror with a face full of sass, Sat plotting his scheme to ruin Christmas en masse. His candy-striped leggings hugged stubby green thighs, His elf hat drooped low over mischievous eyes. With a scowl that could curdle a nice holiday brew, He muttered, “Deck the halls? Bah, shove it, you fools!” “Oh, ho-ho, I’m festive!” he said with a sneer, “I’ll gift-wrap despair and some cheap dollar beer. Santa’s workshop? Please, I’ve got bigger plans, Like spiking eggnog and stealing your pans.” He tiptoed around with a sinister grin, Smeared frosting on walls, then drank all the gin. Stockings were filled—not with goodies or cheer— But with IOUs and expired craft beer. The tree, oh the tree, was a target for spite, He replaced all the bulbs with blinding strobe lights. The angel on top? That porcelain doll? He swapped it for a photo of his middle finger, y’all. “This holiday cheer is an insult to me, With your carols and tinsel and peppermint tea. You’re all jolly fools with your mistletoe kisses, So I’ll gift you despair and big sacks full of misses!” But something went wrong, for despite all his tricks, The family just laughed and grabbed festive breadsticks. They drank all his spiked punch, sang loud and off-key, And the Grinch got annoyed: “What’s wrong with these dweebs?” Exhausted and bitter, he finally sat, The pint-sized menace in his elf-themed hat. And as they all cheered, lifting drinks in his face, He realized, “Oh hell, I’ve just lost this race.” So here’s to the Grinch, that fuzzy green elf, Who played all his pranks but got owned by himself. A toast to the scowl and his candy cane socks, Next year, he’ll try ruining Easter—he’s already bought rocks.

by Bill Tiepelman

Grinchmas Glow: A Festive Heist

'Twas the night before Christmas, and down in the town, All the Who-humans snored with their screens powered down. No tweets, no TikToks, no reels full of fluff, Just silence—and houses with far too much stuff. But high in the hills, in his dank little cave, The Grinch in his onesie was plotting, quite brave. “Oh, these humans are hopeless,” he cackled with glee, “They're lazy and clueless—an easy mark for me!” His fluffy red Santa suit hugged his green gut, While his oversized hat perched atop his green butt. With a candy cane clenched in his mischievous grip, He hopped on his sleigh for his annual trip. Down, down he soared through the cold winter air, With a fart so explosive, it froze his own hair. “Damn that last burrito,” he grumbled and wheezed, “But tonight’s haul will make me feel properly pleased!” He landed his sled on a roof slick with ice, Then grumbled, “These humans should shovel. How nice!” He slipped and he slid, swore words quite obscene, Before plopping face-first into a vent duct unseen. Inside the first house, the Grinch struck a pose— A thief in his prime, from his head to his toes. The Christmas tree sparkled, the stockings were hung, And the air smelled of eggnog, old cheese, and dung. “What do we have here?” the Grinch whispered low, As he rummaged through stockings with gusto and glow. He pocketed candy, stole socks with a smirk, Then tiptoed to the kitchen to get down to work. On the counter he spied a plate full of treats— Cookies and whiskey! His favorite sweets! He scarfed down the snacks, licked his fingers with glee, And let out a burp that woke the family tree. The ornaments shook, the lights started blinking, But the Grinch didn’t stop—he kept right on drinking. “Cheers to myself!” he declared with a cheer, “These suckers won’t know I’ve been robbing them here!” He raided the fridge, he emptied the drawers, He snagged all the gifts and then some decor. The wreath from the door? Into his sack! The vacuum cleaner? “Sure, why not pack?” But then, as he grabbed a smartphone and drone, A strange little whir made him pause and postpone. For there on the floor, with its sensors aglow, A Roomba emerged, like a knight from the snow. “What’s this little beast?” sneered the Grinch, unimpressed. “A robot with wheels? How quaint. How suppressed.” But the Roomba zoomed forward, its motor on high, And the Grinch felt a jolt as it zipped ‘tween his thighs. “Oi! Stop that, you bastard!” the Grinch howled in pain, As the Roomba spun circles and charged him again. He tripped on the carpet, he slipped on the tree, And landed face-first by the family’s TV. “Enough!” cried the Grinch, but the Roomba whizzed by, Beeping and buzzing with vengeance nearby. It nudged at his sack, it tangled his feet, And the Grinch knew this gadget had him beat. He scrambled and stumbled, his sack left behind, As the Roomba pursued him with one thing in mind. Out through the door and onto the lawn, The Grinch fled the house like a thief at the dawn. Back to his sled he retreated, quite sore, With a bruised little ego and pride even more. “No loot for me tonight,” he muttered and spat, “All thanks to that robot—a pest in a hat!” Now back in his cave, with his plan gone awry, The Grinch sat and pondered, his candy cane dry. He stared at the whiskey he’d swiped from the shelf, And muttered, “Next year, I’ll just rob Santa himself.” So if you hear giggles this Christmas Eve night, It’s the Grinch in his onesie, recounting his plight. For though he’s still stealing, he learned one great moral: Never mess with a Roomba—it’s deadly, not floral. And so ends the tale of the Grinch’s defeat, A festive reminder: Don’t underestimate neat. Your gadgets may save you, your robots may rule, But never let burglars take you for a fool.     This image, titled "Grinchmas Glow: A Festive Heist", is available for prints, downloads, and licensing. Explore it further and bring the mischievous Grinch into your collection by visiting our Image Archive.