Christmas has come and gone and, like a Kim Kardashian marriage, it started with a lot of hype, ham shaking, and unemployed basketball players... then ended in disappointment. You are then left with only a father who looks like a lesbian or a large credit card bill.
You be the judge.
Today’s blog comes a few days late and a few shakes of a reindeer’s tail before New Years, but will still focus on the trivial things that Rudolph, St. Nick, and the guy lurking outside your girlfriend’s bedroom dressed in a Santa outfit sans pants failed to discover.
I know what you’re thinking – was Steve actually consummated on a foggy Christmas Eve on the island of misfit toys, when an alcoholic toy yak, and a Jacqueline in the box drank too much spiked eggnog and made some bad decisions together? Please tell me this explains the deranged genetic makeup.
And now to the write up…
EVERY kid loves Christmas lights on the house, and Dads don’t want to disappoint their young tyke, but they also don’t want to be nailing, stapling, and affixing the blasted things, then taking them down year after year.
My Dad figured out that it’s much easier to just leave those infuriating bulbs up year round, instead of going through the torture.
The day after Thanksgiving, the lights would magically turn on, and all the neighbors would gawk in astonishing jealousy…
“Look at that Billy - Those McDevitts are real go-getters…!”
Are there any other electrical devices that rely on each other as much as those darn lights? One small light would go out on the strand and instantaneously the others commit Hari-Kari and turn to mince meat.
If humans worked on this same concept, we’d all be dead at first sign of a co-worker sneezing.
“Holy Mother - It’s the Black Plague of 2011, Johnson! Everyone in the office that’s it. We’re all goners!” People would be throwing themselves into the paper shredder by the dozens.
The Four Horseman of the Apocalypse have this thing all wrong. Just model our demise after these lights.
Done and done.
|Not the Four Horseman of the Apocolypse|
My Mom always puts leftovers from holidays in different containers she’s accumulated over the years and gives them to me to take home which I proceed to throw in the fridge and forget about for six months. The fruit medley I’ve been staying away from all the while, turns out to be a wretched meatloaf, now fermented and emanating a rotting carcass-like aroma. You only discover this once it completes the bacterial life cycle, first eroding its way through the peach medley container, growing a pair of legs, and ultimately, changing the channel during the “Meet the Kardashians,” season finale. (I’ve seen it a hundred times)
“Paul, put that back on!” This is the wedding episo-?”
|Meatloaf rotting in the fridge. No, I won't do that actually.|
In past years I would look forward to basketballs, video games and Matchbox cars, but at some point that all changed. Now my Christmas list is made up of practical and boring gift ideas; like spatulas, cuisinarts and, most importantly, boxer shorts. I don’t think I’ve bought a pair of boxers or socks for, well, ever. Every year my Mom will ensure my socks and underwear collection gets replenished and this year was no different. I’m not sure if I’m alone on this, since now that I think about it, my Mom buying my underwear is actually pretty disturbing. It was also disturbing that she told my brother-in-law this year that she didn’t recognize him with pants on… (No he wasn’t the santa lurking outside with no pants you sicko).
|Still not the Four Horseman of Apocolypse|
|Oh C'mon now|
I’ve noticed over the years that when you are in a relationship, women will buy you mostly presents that will also benefit them. It may be a nice sweater that they want to see you in, new face wash to get rid of your massive blackheads, or nose-hair trimmers to trim the hairs most typically affixed to one’s genitals, but instead are crawling innocuously towards your eyeballs. Just out of range for any standard human pupil to spot, but clear as day for her to notice. At the end of the day, I suppose all these items are ok, but if you open up a box for a Swedish penis enlarger, she just might be telling you something. Just sayin…
For some self-conscious, promiscuous women, going to the mall at Christmas can’t be easy. Specifically when walking by Santa’s North Pole with your two harlot friends.
“Jeanine, was that guy in the red sweatsuit referring to us?”
“Yeah I think so. Oh my god, how does he know?”
“Merry Christmas! “Ho, Ho, Ho.”
“By god I think you’re right, he was saying it right as we walked by, he was looking at us and saying it one by one.”
“Damnit Natalie, I knew we never should’ve gotten on that darn holiday party bus with those Jello shots. Now the whole mall knows.”
That’s all she wrote tonight… Happy New Year!
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