weatherwax

It’s a Christmas movie about a selfish rich kid named Jesper who gets sent out to this HORRIBLE town in the middle of nowhere to be their latest postman. The town is consumed by a violent (and hilarious) generational feud, but Jesper can only escape if he manages to get the townspeople send 6000 letters within the year. The situation seems completely hopeless until he meets a woodsman named Klaus who makes toys. 

Letters. You don’t really write many these days, do you? But I bet there’s one you never forget. Send it off to a certain plump guy in a red suit and, provided you’ve kept your act together more or less, he’ll drop off a toy or two. And yet, no one seems to wonder how the whole thing got started in the first place.

“Think I don’t know that?”

“What did you start out to get, Esme?”

Granny stopped, and looked up at the frosty sky and then down at the ground.

“Dunno,” she said at last. “Even, I suppose.”

Her gaze traveled the room and rested for just a fraction of a second on Magrat. 

Then she reached over, carefully, and thrust her arm up to the elbow into the burning torch. 

And the doll in Erzulie Gogol’s hands burst into flame

It went on blazing even after the witch had screamed and dropped it onto the floor. It went on burning until Nanny Ogg ambled over with a jug of fruit juice from the buffet, whistling between her teeth, and put it out. 

Granny withdrew her hand. It was unscathed. 

“That’s headology,” she said. “It’s the only thing that matters. Everything else is just messin’ about.”