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Send to FriendFUCK YOU!
I'm not going to be jolly, I'm not going to be good to my fellow man, nor give to charity, nor spend hundreds, perhaps thousands of dollars on a bunch of crap for "friends" and family like all the other pathetic saps out there or any of that other nonsense. Fuck them and fuck you, too. No way, man, if I'm going to go out and buy a new DVD player or TV set or Sony Playstation or whatever and stand there waiting in lines a mile long at Wal-Mart or Kmart, I'm sure as hell not going to give it to some other prick I know. What did they ever do for me? Nothing! I'm taking that shit and I'm keeping it for myself. No way in hell would I go through all that trouble for someone else. That's right, folks, I'll still be the ugly, hate-filled, belligerent asshole I've always been no matter what time of year it is and there isn't a damn thing that anyone can do about it!
I hate Christmas! I hate everything it represents and I hate everything that it entails. I hate all that bullshit about having to be nice to everyone, and having to put aside all your hatreds and replace them with kindness. Bullshit! I don't have to do a damn thing at all. Kiss under the mistletoe? Sure, maybe with Eve when she was still alive, but now that she's dead, it means nothing to me. Through mistletoe in my face and I'll take it from you and wipe my ass with it. How about giving to the poor or to charity? Think I'd be caught dead doing anything like that? Nah--not in this lifetime, bub! I'd just assume flush my hard-earned cash down the crapper!
I can remember one time a long time ago, back when bums and hookers used to swarm all the streets of New York and you couldn't walk one street corner without coming across some drunken wino begging for some change. It was the Christmas Eve of 1986 when this had happened. I didn't give the bum any change, but I did give him some friendly advice. I talked to him for a while, gave him a pat on the back, and told him that there was no shame whatsoever in giving in once you hit rock bottom. "There's no shame at all in taking the plunge," I told him, "especially when you've got nothing to live for, nothing to keep you going; when you're a man in your position, sir, sleeping in the streets, getting just about every meal from the nearest garbage can. Why bother going on?" I went on and on about why he should take the plunge; and the pathetic drunk was reluctant at first, skeptical of what I was telling him. But he began to listen to reason eventually, and see the light. And several days later, I read in the newspaper of a bum who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge and was killed. His dead corpse washed to shore, and he had matched the appearance of the bum I had spoken to, so I'm pretty sure that the two are one and the same. Thinking about that, I feel good about myself and what I had done. It was of great benefit to the bum, because let's face it, folks, the fat drunken slob was better off dead. This was one of the few pleasant holiday memories that I have.
I wish all Christmases were like that, instead of all of this happy, sappy bullshit about family, giving, and shit like that. I hate families, especially happy families. Dysfunctional families don't bother me, too much; especially when alcoholism or major drug abuse is involved. Or at least some kind of abuse, preferable of the physical kind. I see or hear about that going on, I can't help but laugh my ass off. Yeah, that's what Christmas is all about...at least it's what it should be all about. But happy families really piss me off. I see or hear about a happy family getting together on Christmas, going out and singing Christmas carols and spreading Christmas cheer, it makes me want to puke! I hate happiness of any kind displayed by others. When you're miserable, I'm in pure bliss. But when you're happy, I'm queasy.
Even the concept of sending out Christmas cards disgusts me and it's a practice that I've never had anything to do with. But I'm thinking that with everything that's going on, I might make an exception this year. My parents and sister, Shirley haven't seen or heard from me in such a long time, you see. We've had no contact whatsoever, and not that I miss them or anything (I don't), but I'm thinking that I might change that status all the same. A Christmas card should suffice in that regard, one from their dear old, long lost son, Johnny. A Hallmark sent to my parents house, and to Shirley's, laced with a few anthrax spores.
Merry motherfucking Christmas, asshole,
and a Happy fucking New Year!
Then lets get into all the crap on TV this time of year. I hate all that sentimental crap. All those Christmas specials, to a certain extent are all the same. There are a few exceptions, of course, such as the Beavis and Butthead Christmas special. But they are few and far between, while the same self-righteous, morality crap about being good toward one's neighbor and to your family, the same overly sentimental crap keeps coming and coming in a million different shapes and sizes and it makes me absolutely sick. Just once I'd like to see a Christmas movie that wasn't made by some overly sensitive, idealistic, holier-than-thou prick trying to tell me that I have to be a sappy, friendly, generous piece of shit with a heart of gold.
I could relate to Ebineezer Scrooge of A Christmas Carol...at least in the beginning. Then they had to go and make him into a sentimental sap like everyone else. What the fuck, man?! Just because a few spirits visit the guy during the night, he has to go through such a big change of heart? Yeah right, that's realistic. I was visiting by three spirits one year, too: the Ghost of Christmas Past, Present, and Future, just like him. They all claimed to be sent to convey the same message to me as they were to convey to him: that I had to change my wicked, misguided ways before it was too late. And the next morning--Christmas Day--when I awoke, I hadn't changed a bit and the only thing I came to realize was that I really needed to get off the acid. Oh, and by the way, if I were in Scrooge's position, I would've let that stupid scrawny little brat, Tiny Tim fucking die and I would've done it happily as well, without an ounce of sympathy. Fuck it, man, who cares about some sickly little runt anyway. Besides, haven't you ever heard of Darwin's Theory of Evolution? Survival of the fittest, man. If he's too weak to survive, then he doesn't deserve to survive no matter what time of year it might be.
And then there's The Grinch, a black-hearted creature who wants to stop Christmas from coming almost as much as I do. But they even had to convert him into the happy, overly perky pieces of shit as the rest of the Whos down in Whoville. And by the time that one ended, I was in the bathroom, my head in the toilet, puking my guts out.
And what would Christmas by without Jolly Old Saint Nick? Hell, everyone loves Santa Clause, that fat tub of lard squeezing his fat ass down the chimney and filling people's stockings with candy and the tree with toys for all the good girls and boys. If Santa were real, he'd no doubt have the world's worst cholesterol level and the worst case of hypertension that the world has ever seen. Then there would be diabetis, and he would have kidney problems, maybe even liver problems if I were lucky. Yeah, that would rule! He'd be in the hospital, put on dialysis and full life support after having all those strokes and heart attacks.
If I were Santa, I wouldn't be half as nice as that other jerk. If I were Santa, instead of squeezing down that cramp, filthy chimney, I'd break in through a window. That way, an unsuspecting kid would no doubt cut himself from the broken glass; that'll no doubt put a hamper on the holidays. I'd look at the stockings hung by the chimney with care. And then--thinking of all the laxatives I'd taken before my arrival, and that glass of nutricious prune juice I drank to wash it all down--instead of candy canes, I'd fill each stocking with my own waste products, shitting thoroughly into each one. The Christmas tree would be kicked over, with a spark of blue lightning as the plug is ripped from the socket, and then the tree would topple over, shattering the bulbs and breaking the candy canes in a tangle of lights and beads, with the star on top bent askew. As it lay sprawled and crumpled on the ground, I'd further degrade the tree by unzipping my pants and pissing all over it. I'd be nice and leave the kids presents; that's what Santa comes to your house to do, right? After eating all the food in their fridge, making a complete mess of myself and leaving filthy dishes strewn all about, the faucet running, the sink overflowing, running up the water bill to boot, then by the downed tree I'd leave for the kids a bag full of the sickest, most illegal porn from around the world; some medical waste; stale beer; crack cocaine. And to add insult to injury, some busted toys, broken dolls, torn and saturated coloring books, and damaged video games. Then after finishing my work, I'd climb out through the broken window (careful not to cut myself on the broken glass) and hop on my sleigh. I'd grab my whip, and while flogging the reindeer I'd call each of their name. And once in the air and flying through the night, blasting through the amplifier I'd exclaim:
"A SHITTY CHRISTMAS TO ALL
AND TO ALL A SICK NIGHT!"
November 18, 2001