Many years ago, in the city of Tampa, Florida, was born a boy child whose parents christened him Hubert Allen Roger Fitzwilder the Third, his father being Hubert the Second and you can figure out the rest. His parents were your average normal parents, and don't really impact our story from hereon, so that's all we'll say of them.
Hubie (as he was called immediately and forevermore, as his father actually hated the name "Hubert" but wanted to keep the partriarchal naming lineage intact, as it were) was for the most part just your average normal baby, and then your basic average normal boy, living your average normal life, until he reached the age of about five years old or so, when something rather interesting happened, or didn't happen, depending on your point of view: Hubie stopped growing, except for his ears, which, over a long enough length of time to be plausible but yet short enough period to be shocking, became pointed.
Now, when I say Hubie stopped growing, I mean his size stopped changing - he continued to mature intellectually, but his feet, his hands, his head, his entire body, remained the size of your average normal 5-year-old kid. To which you might say, "Okay, Hubie was a little person, or dwarf, or midget, or whatever is the correct way to say it based on our current level of political correctness." To which I might say, okay, maybe. But Hubie didn't see it that way.
Hubie knew he was different from other people, and he knew why - he knew he was a Christmas Elf, destined to help Santa at the North Pole when he reached the right age. When Hubie reached the right age, that is, although Hubie wasn't sure what that age should be.
I lied earlier when I said that was all we'll say of Hubie's parents, because they need to make an appearance now to let the audience know that they took Hubie to various doctors and specialists to see why he wasn't growing (except for his ears), because they weren't total idiots, they suspected some kind of hormone problem. But Hubie's medical tests all proved normal; that is, there wasn't anything objectively wrong with him, except he was small with pointy ears. The (the doctors and specialists) recommended plastic surgery for the ear situation but Hubie, to his parents' surprise, didn't want it done - because he knew he was a Christmas Elf.
The doctors and specialists then recommended psychological counseling. Hubie's parents, not really sure what to do but noticing that Hubie seemed to be a pretty well-adjusted child in most ways, pretty much just let Hubie alone and stopped worrying about the situation.
Hubie was a bright boy, not a genius or anything but able to handle being a small, pointy-eared kid in grade school, and then middle school, and then high school, who only occasionally got his head flushed in toilets by various adolescent thugs. Hubie was small but he wasn't stupid; after a few choice experiences with larger kids trying to stuff him in lockers, desks, and gym bags, Hubie studied such martial arts as Tai Chi, Kung Fu, and Four Fingers of Flying Death, which built up his physique and pretty much kept any possible tormenters at bay. His confidence never needed any building; he knew he was a Christmas Elf, and thus destined for greater things.
After high school, Hubie went to college, double majoring in Industrial and Mechanical Engineering (as he surmised that these would both be useful qualities for in the service of Santa's workshop, as well as maximizing gift packaging efficiency during transport). He was a good student, and aside from a few nasty encounters with drunken frat boys (who painfully learned that Hubie's small size meant his Four Fingers of Flying Death were aimed straight at their crotches), it was a good time in Hubie's life.
Flash forward a few years and Hubie had graduated college (with honors) and was working various odd-jobs, including a very lucrative stint as a Hobbit for a series of Japanese beer advertisements, while using all of his free time doing research on Santa and just where his workshop is located. Hubie learned quickly that despite the conclusion presented in "Miracle on 34th Street," the U.S.P.S. did not have either Santa's current or forwarding address. He took several trips to Finland and Norway, as both countries list Santa as resident of their northernmost locales, but these leads also proved false (though Hubie did have an experience in Lapland where he discovered that, ironically, he was allergic to reindeer fur).
If this were a movie, there'd be montage here showing the passage of time as Hubie continued his search for Santa Claus, never losing faith in his mission. He traveled far and wide, by car, boat, and plane, visiting more shopping malls than anyone else in history, but Santa remained the ever-elusive quarry. Finally, Hubie realized what he must do - go straight to the North Pole itself.
Now, traveling to the North Pole, even in this day and age, is a bit more complicated than getting a Greyhound ticket and packing an overnight bag. Hubie took a flight to Copenhagen, from there a steamer to Stockholm, and signed on as a deckhand on a freighter from Stockholm to Newfoundland. From Newfoundland to Greenland he hitched a ride on a smelt processing ship; from Greenland it was train, bus, snowmobile, dog sled, and, ultimately, on foot, north.
And, finally, one day, many years since he first realized he was a Christmas Elf, he arrived at the North Pole (he had one of those global positioning devices so we know he actually made it, this isn't one of those ironic stories where he ends up at the south pole or anything). He looked around him and saw ... a hell of a lot of snow, and that's about it. Except ... wait ... in the distance there ... was that a castle?
He ran towards the vision (as fast as you can run in a parka and boots, anyway), his heart filled with joy at the realization his long journey was coming to a glorious end. And as he got closer and closer he was able to make out a sign, just readable in the distance, in big red letters ...
Hubie was still jubilant - Santa would be the kind of guy to dissuade possible solicitors by putting up misleading signage. So he kept running, and followed the signs to the main office. The door was unlocked. Hubie turned the knob with trembling fingers.
"If you're from Team 5," a voice behind a desk called out, "the toilets in your bunkhouse are now fixed."
"No," panted Hubie. "I'm Hubie. I'm here to see Santa."
"He's over in the infirmary," the voice answered, coming from the mouth of a rather burly guy who didn't bother looking up. "Got a pretty good hangover going from the party last night. Shouldn't have tried mixing diesel and whisky."
Now, as I mentioned before, Hubie was a pretty bright guy so he realized, reasonably quickly, that something wasn't quite right here.
"This isn't Santa's castle?" Hubie finally asked, his voice betraying just a hint of disappointment.
The guy behind the desk looked up, then did a double-take. "You're not from Team 5," he said.
"I'm Hubert Allen Roger Fitzwilder the Third," Hubie said, straightening himself up to his full height of three feet four inches. "I'm a Christmas Elf, come these many miles and many years to find my destiny with Santa Claus."
"Uh, I'll need to talk to the shift supervisor, why don't you just wait here a minute." The burly man grabbed his coat and slipped out the back of the office. Hubie waited patiently for several minutes, until the man returned, another burly man following him.
The second burly man looked Hubie up and down, mostly down, as Hubie was, as already mentioned, rather on the short side. Hubie pulled off his hat, revealing his pointy ears, and the second burly man scratched his head.
"He's not from Team 5," the second burly man said at last. "Maybe he came in with Rolf's crew down from Svalbard."
"I'm Hubert Allen Roger Fitzwilder the Third," Hubie said again, with great seriousness. "I'm a Christmas Elf, come these many miles and many years to find my destiny with Santa Claus."
"So do you know how to operate a crane?" the second burly man asked.
"I've got over ninety hours on a Liebherr LB1400." Hubie rubbed one of his pointy ears.
"All right. Ever worked on a dig? We've got a tunnel project about six months behind schedule down in Trondheim."
"Spent six months on a ten-meter hard rock TBM in New Zealand for the Manapouri project. 3500 kilowatts of cutterhead power, all the while complying with very stringent environmental regulations."
"You can pick up a toolbag from Harry," the burly man said, turning to leave. "There's a transport leaving Monday, paydays are Tuesday and we'll comp you for the move."
"But I came here to find Santa Claus and work for him," Hubie protested. "I'm a Christmas Elf."
The second burly man just looked at Hubie.
"Kid," he said, "there ain't no Santa Claus."
"There isn't?"
"No."
"Really?"
"Uh, yeah. Sorry."
"Oh. Well, darn. I wish somebody had told me that earlier."
And so Hubie the Christmas Elf at last found happiness, working in construction teams around the world. Nobody cared about his pointy ears, his small size made him invaluable in crawling into tight spaces, he made a hell of a lot of money, and he finally met a Icelandic girl with a thing for short guys and they got married and are currently living in a really nice mansion in Argentina as Hubie discovered he really didn't like the cold all that much anyway.
The moral of the story is:
If life doesn't turn out the way you want and all your dreams don't come true,
you'll be happier if you get over it and find something else to do.