Merry X-Mas

Here is a blast from the past on Santa Claws.

When you finally make it back to the parking lot you are clapp, clapp, clapping. Clapping like a three year old, who has just been told that cookies are for dinner and cake is for dessert. A three year old who still believes in Santa, never mind that the fat, jolly, old elf with his swarmy fucking Norwegian smile won't be sharing his cookies , won't be sharing his milk.Never mind the 10 inch butcher's knife protruding from Santa's sack that he's been saving for daddy. Never mind Santa chopping into daddy's neck and storing daddy's blood in stockings designed especially for all the bad boys like your brother Sammy.

Mean old Sammy who likes to hold your face in the mudd till your just about to breathe."Don't worry" Santa says. "I take care of puckers like him. I cut off their balls and then I serve them raw to little girls like you . I call them cherry bombers . Now , just swallow it down with one big gulp like a good girl , till it pops out yo ass and grows a bush in that filth you forget to wipe away each morning."

A bush your Uncle Billy would sure like to stick his fingers into. Unlike stickin' it to your Aunty Ann who hasn't had his attention since you were born , and who's been too busy to notice you. Too busy arguing with Oprah, too busy fingering her crotch with her newest toy. Toys you won't be getting for some time. Toys you wouldn't be caught dead playing with.Instead you'll just feel the vomit bulging in your neck ,ready to explode, to burst forth with a comedic force , showering old Santa in a prism hue of pink and chunky. You feel so lightheaded , dizzy. And the stifling bark of Effexor is pulsing in your head. You can feel the neurotransmitters ping ponging back and forth in your skull. You can taste the bile in the back of your throat and you can barely swallow.

You can look up at Santa with your child like eyes. Those precious kitten like eyes peering up with innocence, you can do all that while staring at the plate of missing cookies you were promised for dinner. You can glance side ways down the hall into the bedroom that Momma once shared with Poppa.

You can almost feel the heat from his released blood spilling out into space.The laws of thermodynamics then take over , and you can rest assured that whatever warmth Poppa once gave to you, he is now sharing with the whole universe. A cold universe made only a smidgen warmer by the lactose intolerant carcass that now rests at just the paticular angle needed to provide a backside view of your father's ass.

An ass covered with ingrown hairs protruding forward with a vulgar urbanity, spewing forth carbuncles of puss that wait to be popped like Britney Spears vulva on a Florida trailer park restroom floor. A floor covered in the grime of white trash piss and stink ,the piss and stink of men who don't care where they piss, or what they piss on. Men who know that no one else cares where they piss or what they they piss on."Stop staring at your father's arse you little whore."

Who knew a fucking Norwegian saint could speak in a British accent, and a lower Cadsden accent at that.