Who says a two-dollar whore can't get all festive and shit?
While I'm not traditionally a Christmas-y person, since working retail at this time of year saps not only my will to live but also my will to allow others to live, I couldn't pass up Susie's challenge to throw my own little Ho-Ho party at the Cotillion. As I was busy assembling letter bombs to send to anyone who has ever recorded a version of The Little Drummer Boy (well, not Bob Seger...I'm just sending him a care package of red-and-green diarrhea for his trouble, because I love him so), the Sugar Plum Fairies started whispering sweet yet slightly odiferous nothings in my ear, and the Ghost of Christmas Present smacked me upside the head with a side of bacon, so here I am.
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the trailer There lurked a hot chick, but I just couldn't nail her. The condoms were stashed by the nightstand in case Her vagina had sprouted a schlong in its place.
(Okay, I tried, but that's all I've got, folks. Be glad.)
Favorite Holiday Food
Because it's the holiday season, I love to cook my favorite meals and share them with friends, friends who rarely recover from the food poisoning afterglow. Did you know that I invented a whole new kind of salmonella? Don't mean to toot my own horn, but I'm kinda proud of myself for that one.
I'll let you in on a little secret (aside from the fact that I'm currently carrying the wooden love child of Howdy Doody): it doesn't matter what the main course is, as long as it's smothered in my special gravy:
Now, I don't want to give away too much, because I want my recipe to be unique, but I will say that there's a very specific way to gather the main ingredient.
This picture is only a fictional representation, of course; I prefer to use an oversized turkey baster with a board strapped to its ass.
Decorations and Adornment
I know I've said in the past that I don't really decorate for Christmas, but thanks to a link sent to me by HTGT, I've changed my ways this year. In fact, my new favorite consumer product is not only a decoration, it can count as my gay apparel, too!
No, silly rabbits, they're not tiny Christmas trees....they're bejeweled buttplugs! Why? Well, because my anus is quite possibly the fanciest place on earth. Not, perhaps, the most exclusive, but certainly the fanciest. I've always had the urge to use a Bedazzler on my asshole, and now I can have that experience without the unsightly puncture marks.
You can't really tell, but I'm totally winking at you all right now.
I think the holidays are a great time to get together with folks I might not see as much during the year, like that bar of soap I keep meaning to use, so I like to invite all my friends over for modest hootenannies. Maybe I should stop furnishing the alcohol, though, because things always seem to get out of hand in a hurry around here.
I thought I asked for these two to be kept in separate orgy rooms.
I had to slap T-Rex on the pee-pee shortly thereafter. Dick on someone your own size!
Scarface agreed with me that it was just plain rude for these two to start getting sloppy on my end table. Use a footstool like everyone else, you guys!
Kiss this guy's ass and you'll just encourage him to whip out his Precioussssss.
It's a few years old, but the sentiment is still the same. To all of you from the monkey, Mr. Hankey, the Homies, and me!
Addendum: Christmas Music. I'm Totally Cereal.
There's one song I always play on Christmas day, without fail. Anybody who knows me is aware of the fact that I really can't stand most traditional Christmas music (though I've found, through being forced to listen to the Sirius Holiday Music Channel at work this year, that I don't mind it so much if it's instrumental or jazzed up), so my yearly choice is not in any way traditional for anyone but me. My Christmas song is Tom Waits' Christmas Card From a Hooker in Minneapolis...and just for you guys, I've found a live version of it where he actually throws in a little bit of "normal" Christmas music (well, as close to "normal" as anything Tom Waits does).
"I don't have a husband...he don't play the trombone."
For those who want to hear the originally recorded version of the song:
Pullin' from my ass, tuggin' on your heartstrings...
Department of Redundancy Department: Heard on Jeopardy! last week, straight from the venerable lips of Alex Trebek, after a contestant found a Daily Double: "You have the most money...and you're in the lead, too!"
Safety First...no, wait, "Fuck you!" First, then Safety: Yesterday, while attempting to pilot my car along slippery roads, I was bullied by two different vehicles. Really, what kind of sadistic douchebag menacingly tailgates a fellow traveler who is obviously having difficulty staying on the road, much less building up any speed?
Well, the first one was driving a salt truck, and felt the need to drive right up my ass while I was headed in to work. What's the rationale there? "I'm gonna push this bitch into the bayou so I can hurry up and make the roads safe!" Dude, your truck weighs a million pounds, whereas my car weighs slightly more than the two bags of kitty litter in the back. Wow, yes, I'm super impressed with your size and the huge load you're carrying; now go shoot it somewhere and stop bothering me.
As I was leaving work, I pulled out onto the road and found that I had no traction, so the Cruiser was just kind of spinning its wheels and dithering left and right instead of going forward as I had planned. I've seen it happen to other cars plenty of times, and I believe the proper etiquette when you're behind such a vehicle is to slow the fuck down and let the car get its bearings; it will eventually straighten out and continue on its course, and all will be well in Gotta Get There land. Sure, I saw the other vehicle as I exited the parking lot, I gauged its distance from me, and since the speed limit in town is 25, there should have been ample time for me to get my bearings on the slip-n-slide road and be out of its way with no incident. But no. Halfway across the intersection, I looked into my rearview mirror to see the grill of a school bus trying to take a bite out of my rear bumper. I believe I yelped "What the FUCK?" as I swerved into the parking lot of a gas station, looking back to see the school bus continue its upapologetic takeover of the road at a too-fast-for-safety speed. Now, dear bus driver, I can completely understand that you have a bus full of children and you want to get them the fuck out of there and away from you as quickly as possible; don't think that sentiment is lost on me, because it isn't. But did it ever occur to you that if you hit me, then you'd be stranded in the bus with the little heathens for that much longer as we waited for the police to arrive and take details of the whole sordid affair? Tsk tsk, Mr. or Ms. Bus Driver; think of the children.
Speaking of douchebags: For every pleasant, enjoyable customer who comes into the store, there is an equal and opposite asshole customer.
* The customer who wants a specific item, then screeches, "Why does it have to be so expensive?" Oh, I'm so sorry! I evilly marked it up 4000%, not knowing that I would be selling it to you, oh wonderful human being who is gracing my presence. Let me just change that price tag to 10 cents for you, because I have so much authority to do so. Yeah. Back of the line, asshole!
* The check writer. I don't know if anyone clued you in to this, but while you were sleeping, Rip Van Tinkle, the clock turned over to the 21st century and we now have these groovy, space-age inventions called debit cards. Use your checks for things that don't involve people standing in line behind you while we take your life history to verify the unbounciness of your antiquated method of payment. And if you start bitching about all the information we are required to gather when you insist on paying us like that, I'll have to dismember you and feed your remains to a brontosaurus, like the caveman you are. Back of the line, asshole!
* Old people who hate anything invented since 1940 and yet haunt the store several days a week. If you hate technology with such a Geritol-fueled passion, then why do I see you in this electronics store every other day? Can't you vent your righteous indignation at bingo or something? Let me tell you some things you may not know: It's not my fault that you can't buy 78s for your Victrola anymore. I had nothing to do with the fact that you won't be able to upgrade your 1948 television to receive a digital signal. I am not responsible for the fact that no one makes batteries anymore for that newfangled cordless phone you bought in 1980. Hell, I'm still upset about all these 8-tracks with no player, but you don't see me chewing out a Best Buy clerk. I'm doing my very best to assist you in adjusting and upgrading where necessary, but you make me feel less helpful by the minute when you spend the entire time bitching about "Why do I need this?" and "This technology has gone too far!" I'm not even sending you to the back of the line - I'm busing you all to a museum, where you'll feel more at home and better able to adjust to changes, like the agricultural revolution.