Throwing Poo

It wouldn’t be Christmas without Burl Ives.  Not only does he belt out the coolest holiday sing-along ever, “Holly Jolly Christmas,” the man actually looks like Santa Claus. He owns December the way that Mr. T owns the afro-hawk or Rosie O’Donnell owns erotically-devoid lesbianism. 

During the other eleven months of the year, however, Burl Ives needs to be packed away in a musty attic with the other Christmas decorations.  And there he must stay until next Thanksgiving or the day when someone finally unearths the long lost recording of “Holly Jolly Arbor Day.” 
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I’m going miss you, Christmas Ale from Great Lakes Brewing Company, with your festive bottle, spicy bouquet, and 7.3% alcohol content.  No more regaining consciousness in my neighbor’s rose bushes covered in a crispy coating of frozen Christmas cookie vomit.  No more head-butting the Salvation Army lady outside of Giant Eagle just to “ring her bell.”  No more waking up at 4:00 AM inside a running clothes dryer. 

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A week before Christmas my annual holiday bonus arrived: two AMC movie tickets. I don’t expect much, but seriously, what the Christmas fuck?  Am I the freaking paperboy?  Hell, at least Clark Griswald got a different jar of jelly every month. 

Seriously, go fuck yourself with an oversized candy cane coated with jagged, crystallized sprinkles of AIDs.

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I witnessed a holiday miracle on Friday.  The name on the boarding pass of the person in front of me in line for my flight to Indianapolis on Friday was Richard Wacker.  I swear to Santa.

What a struggle it must be for poor Dick.  You know he wakes up every day and says, "This is it.  Today, I'm going to finally change this awful fucking name of mine," and then wimps out for fear that his father, Willy, and grandfather, Pudding (better known as "Pud") will roll over in their graves in disappointment.  At least he has it better than his son, Jerksoffalot.