Most Christmas songs are stupid, but there’s one stupider than all the rest: Have A Holly Jolly Christmas.
I know what jolly means, but what the hell does holly mean?
Yes, I know it’s a plant. But in the context of the song, holly is meant to act as an adjective. Or as an adverb that modifies jolly.
When I last checked the dictionary, the only definition for holly is as a noun.
Can you have a holly jolly anything else?
Easter?
Birthday?
Blowjob?
Root canal?
No?
Then fuck you and your holly jolly Christmas.
I’m too busy celebrating Kwanzaa.
Category: My stories
You’re such a HO HO HO!
Usually, Santa’s so reliable on Christmas, delivering toys to all the good boys and girls.
However, this year he missed a lot of deliveries, and got a bunch of others mixed up.
It’s totally my fault. I’m sorry.
How so?
Well, I slipped some GHB into the milk I left out with the cookies, and it fucked up his memory.
Look, I only wanted to get a little holiday action with the jolly old elf, but I guess I put too much of the drug in there.
Still, it was worth it, even if I’m on the naughty list forever.
Milk and Fuck You
It’s a tradition to leave out milk and cookies for Santa, and you don’t mess with traditions.
Or so I thought.
I woke up to an angry fat man in red and white, smashing the plate of cookies against my face.
“CHEAP FUCKIN’ OREOS!” bellowed Santa.
Then he drank the milk. And spat it out. Right into my bloody, cookie crumb-covered face.
“SKIM MILK? WHAT THE SHIT IS THIS?”
I was too terrified to move.
“Tell the world I want caviar and champagne. Or I burn every motherfucking house down.”
He vanished up the chimney.
Next year, I’m doing Hanukkah.
The Hunter’s Christmas
Every Christmas, Nardo would pick up his toys one by one, howling his hunter’s howl, and put them under the tree with the presents.
Without him to hunt them now, his toys sit unused at the foot of the bed, on top of the chest we keep there.
I pick up a stuffed toy robin, walk into the living room, and place it under the tree.
I look at the robin sitting there, just like years before.
I’d say “Good boy!” and pet him, and he’d go back for more.
But it’s not the same.
Because I forgot to howl.
Ingrate
Nobody ever wants to get back up on Santa’s lap and thank him for all that he brought them. So, he eats to fill that emptiness, and his beard is thick with frozen tears.
He drinks. The elves worry that he’ll pass out in a snowdrift and freeze to death.
Mrs. Claus threatens to leave, but she’s got nowhere to go. All she knows is keeping the fat old man happy.
Well, used to.
She wrote a book. Told everything.
The publisher printed millions of copies in time for Christmas.
Claus hung himself so he wouldn’t have to deliver them.
Day Thirteen
On the 13th day of Christmas, the woman who I thought was my true love left me.
After all I did for her, too.
The birds all went back to the pet store, and the nursery took back the tree.
The jewelers aren’t happy about the rings, so I filed a claim through American Express.
The maids went back to the dairy and took their cows with them.
The ladies, lords, pipers and drummers were just day hires. They went back home when the gig was over.
Okay, maybe not the drummers. They’re all sleeping on my couch.
Goddamn deadbeats.
We Wish You A Merry Come In Peace
Every Christmas, the weather guy puts Santa’s sleigh on the radar display.
This year, I’m going to hack into the system and replace Santa with a gigantic meteor.
That way, when he pulls up the map, instead of convincing children to go to sleep, the entire broadcast area will run screaming through the streets with panic.
I hacked into the television station’s network and did the swap.
That night, I watched the weather report.
Right there on the map, for all to see:
A UFO?
Most people ran screaming into the streets.
I didn’t.
Maybe Santa traded in the sleigh?
Hold My Calls
Winston’s last words were “hold my calls.”
And then, an hour later, he died from a heart attack.
Winston’s phone rang while the orderlies were moving his body down to the morgue for processing.
“Hey! Hey there!” shouted the phone, over and over.
It was Winston’s voice shouting as the ringtone, and it scared the fuck out of the orderlies.
“I warned you,” cackled Winston’s ghost.
Then his spirit wandered off to the emergency room, where he placed bets with the other ghosts on who would live or die.
Which was awkward when those dying patients became ghosts too.
Detroit
Everybody says that Detroit is dying, but nobody knows when to pull the plug.
Detroit isn’t any help. Detroit is in denial, insisting it’s fine, as the urban decay rots deeper and deeper.
None of its relatives are in any position to help out either. All those sister cities you see on WikiPedia don’t answer Detroit’s calls.
Neighbors? Forget about them.
Chicago is drowning in blood.
Washington is out of cash, so don’t count on a bailout.
Maybe the easiest decision will be what to do with the corpse, because the fire department left long ago.
Hand me a lighter.
Cloudspotting
During descent into Denver, for the final ten minutes of the flight, the seatback screen shows a relaxing video loop of slowly-drifting clouds.
I’m sure there’s hidden messages in those clouds, intended to keep passengers calm.
I watch the clouds pass slowly by, trying to pick out any shapes I can find.
Back in Ohio, I was a champion cloud-spotter, picking out shapes faster than anyone else.
“There’s a boat!”
“There’s a horse.”
“There’s a dragon.”
“DRAGON!” I shouted. “RUN! RUN!”
My friends didn’t need to be told to run.
We made it to the shelter before the flames hit.