I love the holidays, I really do. Charlie Brown. Flocked bushes. Tinseled train sets and shit. But really, I only like the holidays for the feeling that I get in my gut, not for the overblown, Hallmark-fueled disaster of it all. I like the smell of Christmas trees. The taste of hot cocoa. Chestnuts roasting on… I couldn’t pick a chestnut out of a nut lineup. I always get busy busy busy around the holidays, and that’s okay. I hope you’re busy too, as it is a sign of progress (or early demise, which might also be considered progress, if only for someone else).
So, in the spirit of this holiday quarter, I have a seasonal rhyme for the house. I did one last year too, and it also sucked something awful. Sucking is the new pink, haven’t you heard?
Hark, the Hell’s Angels sing!
With wreaths weaved with meth and bottle brush shanks.
Where the hell is my cheer?
Lights on the tombstones of kazoos this year.
Pumpkins to peppermints to champagne on the floor.
Santa’s not gay, I’m pretty sure.
I want the Olsen twins in my stocking. Now.
Trickin’ sure is a treat!
Unless there’s weeping scabs involved.
Lumps of coal.
Butts of cigarette.
Three bottles of empty Shlitz.
Feelin’ the spirit yet?
George Michael never really cared,
whether they knew it was Christmas Time At All.
Santa’s still not gay…
but he might swing for thick chest hair.
Jinglin’ my bells.
The rotting turkey smells.
I’ll be hungover Christ-mas day.
It’s no fun, to not be snide, when hookers ask for pay, HEY!
33% less consumptive spirit will be felt at registers this year.
That’s like punching the baby Jesus for crying.
He sleeps on hay, which has to chafe.
Target’s got discounted influenza on every aisle.
I’m giving out STDs this year.
Hark, the Hell’s… where’s that pipe at?