Single people, like me, just love it when the other half asks what we’re doing for the holidays. The answer they expect is something along the lines of, “Oh, I’m flying back home to spend time with my family.” How boring. Better choices for answers, whether actually true or not, include:
- Getting fucking plastered. No, really. I’m having a plaster mold done of my cock … whilst I get shitfaced.
- I’m putting on plaid and having an Orange is the New Black marathon.
- I’m cleansing.
- Sending a text message out to all of my contacts wishing them Happy Festivus.
- Cutting Christmas lights.
- Cuddling on the sofa with a fine 18-year-old … Scotch.
- Staring into space pondering the meaning of life.
- Wrapping, then unwrapping presents I bought myself. Then, acting surprised when I’m actually disappointed. Then, I’m going to hug myself.
If the above sounds Grinch-y, you’re probably one of those over-the-top Christmas people who is wearing something red (ugly) and green (ugly) right now. I bet you have a can of aerosol snow, don’t you? Well, have yourself a Merry Fucking Christmas. I’m masturbating, and going to bed.
As a consultant, I usually escape the nonsense of company holiday parties. Friends also rarely invite me to house parties since I am known to drink only the most expensive bottles, urinate on lawn decorations, and leave partially-chewed brownies in the guest bathroom sink. Yet, nary a season passes without an invitation to an Ugly Sweater party. I say, why stop at the sweater? Why not Ugly Slacks? Ugly Sneakers? Ugly Facial Hair? I think women should have a special category: Ugly Crotchless Lace Panties–the Sasquatch of clothing.
I realize the purpose of this theme is so that people can justify keeping closet shelves stocked with decade-old clothing. It’s a sort of self-deprecation strategy: “Look, I have this sweater, which I once wore, thinking it was fashionable. Silly me. Now, I save it only for these special occasions, because I have fine taste.”
When I go to these parties, sometimes I wear a ridiculous sweater, but act like I’m unaware of the party’s theme. Then, when people approach me and comment on my silly top, I react similar to how a barren chubster acts when someone asks when she’s due.
“That’s awesome, dude. Ha ha ha!”
“Your sweater. Classic.”
“My mother bought this for me the year she died of pancreatic cancer.”
“You’re mean. You shouldn’t get your jollies at someone’s expense. That’s called bullying.”
“But, this is an Ugly Sweater party, so I assumed …”
“When you assume, you make a dickheadish meaniehead of yourself.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“This is a fine sweater. It keeps my nipples toasty. If you don’t like it, you should keep your opinion to yourself. I haven’t commented on that unsightly skin tag on your neck, have I? No. Why? Because I am polite and considerate.”
At this point, I usually blow my nose on a hanky I have stuffed up the sleeve.
“Apology accepted. Hold this for a second. Say, is there any eggnog left?”
Wouldn’t it be fun to have an Ugly Socks party? Guests would be required to tuck their slacks into their socks. Puffy ankles rule!
Better yet, I’m going to host an Ugly Guest party. Invitees will be required to venture into used clothing boutiques and Walmart to find people they can bring along to my party. I’m also going to require the guest be leashed and drink from a sippy cup. The night will culminate in a contest where the guests will be required to dance Gangnam Style while I toss insults and deviled eggs at them. (You can throw a nice curveball with a deviled egg. It’s all about the aerodynamics, people.)
How about an Ugly Child party? This has obviously been Ugly Child month as evidenced by all of the social media posts of runny-nosed kids wearing antlers and puffy jackets. Bring your smelly little monkey to my party, but leave it outside to play in the cul-de-sac, please. They tend to dirty my carpets. I promise to provide play-weapons, skates, scooters, boards, and ramps they can use to begin working on head injuries to justify the approaching therapy and drug addictions.
The object of this “toy,” as I understand it, is to convince your children that the doll is watching them to make sure they behave, otherwise it will tap into your home’s WiFi and let Santa know. If this works in your home, you need to ask yourself if the ends (good behavior) justify the means (your deception and the kid’s gullibility).
I have a great idea: How about instead of a doll talking to an imaginary being, put a fucking WiFi camera in the room? Yes, they make those. Then, show your runt the video feed on your iPhone. The stupid toy costs $30, so the camera is only a few dollars more, and here’s the hook: it’s REAL!
Stop lying to your kids now so they don’t spend their late teens strolling around my neighborhood in black pants and suspenders, interrupting my workday while handing out silly religious propaganda. Stop with the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, and Pedo-Claus.
Imagine if children of today fully embrace this Elf on the Shelf thingie, and begin developing adult prototypes. It would be worse than Mormonism.
- Elf in the Backseat – Making sure you don’t pinch Susie’s boobies until they’re ripe.
- Elf in the Dorm Room – Reporting home to your parents that you spend the book money they send you on pot, cheap beer, and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Oh, and you masturbate too much.
- Elf on a Bar Stool – Telling your wife or girlfriend that you continue tipping over 30% in a futile effort to have sex with the bartender.
- Elf in the Workplace Bathroom – Telling all your coworkers it was you.
- Elf in the Cubicle – Yes, she is shopping and he is looking at celebrity tits.
- Elf in the Shower – Nothing goes down that drain except soap and loose hair, Mister.
- Elf at the Gym – Texting from the elliptical is not a fucking exercise.
- Elf in the Shopping Cart – M&Ms are not vegetables.
- Elf at the Lakers Game – Shoots foul shots as well as Dwight Howard and he costs over $19 million less.
- Elf in Kate’s Womb – “King me, motherfucker!”
I’m going to steal two of these silly dolls, pose them in various sex positions, take pictures, and post them on my blog in an effort to desensitize the Republicans about gay marriage. If Santa’s elves can wear such devilish grins while invading each other’s innards, maybe it ain’t so bad.
If I am invited to any house parties this year (unlikely, since I took an upper-decker last year and drew penises on the mirrors using bar soap), I’ll hunt for the Elf. I’ll kidnap that little creep, torture it, send pictures, and demand ransom. I’ll bury that prick up to his saggy cap in cat litter. I’ll microwave the munchkin. I’ll tie the brat to the bumper of my car and parallel park. I’ll tape it to the fence of Middle School playground, and taunt it. Don’t think I won’t. I have a dark side and low tolerance for magic tricks.
(Don’t buy yours here.)
Did Santa bring everything you wished for? I took the lazy route this year and mailed gift cards. Much as I have become a “White Elephant” gift expert (booze always wins), I predict my gift cards were some of the most highly appreciated. The worst gift is usually clothing. In fact, clerks at Macy’s should be trained to discourage it so they don’t have a stampede of returns tomorrow.
“Hello, Sir. Is this lavender cardigan a gift?” she asked knowingly.
“Put it back.”
“Turn your blind ass around and put this back where you found it.”
“But it’s for my mother.”
“I don’t care if it’s for your poodle. Put it back and I’ll start processing the gift card you’re going to send instead.”
“No ‘but.’ If you give this to your mother, she’ll smile, thank you, and need to waste gas and time returning it. She’ll stand in line with a group of similarly annoyed mothers, and yours truly will suffer the brunt of her attitude as I process the return.”
“She likes sweaters.”
“Ah, I don’t doubt you. Here’s the thing: She likes sweaters that she picks out. You don’t want her to pick out your jeans, do you?”
“You don’t. When you give her a gift card, she can toss it into her purse and not think about it until she happens to be shopping. A return will wear on her as she reminds herself to bring it and the receipt the next time she’s in the area.”
“Maybe I could buy her perfume.”
“Are you not listening? Your choices are cash or a gift card. Cash shows no creativity or thought and it will probably go toward her electric bill. Hence, a gift card.”
Another fine gift is scotch. It never spoils and actually improves with age–good stuff. In these rough economic times, I’ve fallen in love with mini-bottles. I can easily load my pockets with a few and save $7 a drink when I’m out. Sure, road sodas are a bit ghetto, but a man has got to drink and pay his mortgage. Did you know that Bailey’s now comes in mini-bottle size? Fo’ shizzle! Pick up a few and bring them to Starbucks. Twist off the cap and dump away into your burnt, brown morning speed. It’s such an improvement and so festive! If the barista tries to charge you a corkage fee, kick him in the gonads and run.
There are only 365 shopping days until Christmas, my friend. Remember: booze or gift cards.
P.S. Before you’re tempted to correct my math, note that 2012 is a leap year.