The economy sucks a pair of used transvestite thongs. Trust me, I know. I’m a poor law school student. Well, “poor” is a relative term. I’m on a scholarship, my parents help me out, and I bleed my husband dry. Fucker got to marry ME. The least he can do is sign his pay check over to me. HA! Perpetuating female stereotypes is FUN!
So, what can you do about Christmas presents when you can barely feed yourself or can’t afford to put a dent in your three-bottle a day whisky habit… I mean indulgence?
You don’t want to be “that guy” during the family Christmas gift opening extravaganza. You know, the stupid shit getting gifts while NO ONE seems to be able to find ANYTHING under the tree from you. Normally, I advocate the getting without giving scenario. But, it’s Christmas! Even I can’t stand to phone it in on this one.
So, I figure there must be a shit ton of other people out there in the same boat. In the spirit of giving, I decided to give you poor schleps some help. These ideas have worked for me in the past… just not well. Who cares? It’s the thought that counts, right? Well, prepare to have that adage stretched to it ever-loving limits.
Look, we all have gotten gifts that were on the meatier side of a shit sandwich. “Oooooooooo! School supplies!” How about that box of socks from Aunt Mimi? Don’t even get me started on that goddamn tub of Oxy Clean I got when I was 16. Just what the fuck were you trying to imply, Uncle Merl? Such an asshole.
This doesn’t even have to be stuff that you, outright, threw into the “reject” bin. But, let’s face it, it’s going to be. Just mix it up a bit. Don’t give Aunt Hortense the leg wax she gave you last year. Give that gem to Uncle Pete. Remember that box of bath beads sitting in the closet collecting dust? Well, hell, that’s a great gift for you 15-year-old cousin. Kids huff bath beads these days, right?
Free stuff you got at work/school
If you travel around for work and attend various useless trade shows or subject yourself to the joy that is a vender show at a university campus, you know what I’m talking about. These places are teeming with useless bullshit people can’t stop taking. Little flashlights with their company logo. Knock off Beanie Babies with their company logo. A travel mug… with their company logo. The whole point of this is to plant your company in the subconscious. What better way of doing this than using free shit no one has a need for?
If you look hard enough, you’ll find some practical shit mixed with the fake beanie babies and mini Breathalyzers. Who wouldn’t love to get a USB drive with almost no space? What kind of loved one would not want a leaky travel mug with the Halliburton logo? Take it a step beyond and mix and match. What cousin wouldn’t be grateful with a hand sanitizer/hand lotion combo? Come to think about it, that sends out a bunch of messages not association with the Christmas Spirit.
Stuff from around your house
Are you a shut-in? Do you want to be? Are you too poor, cheap, or lazy to actually step foot outside your house to go to conventions to get free shit? Does the thought of another year of mall shopping for people you barely like sink you into a deep depression? Well, good news Droopy! There’s not need to mingle with the rabble! Just look around you house. Do it! You live in a fucking sty. You should be ashamed of yourself. God I hate you.
Where was I? Oh yeah, I hate you. No! Wait! Oh yea. Christmas presents. My article about icky shut-ins is next month. Anyhoo… your house is a treasure trove of goodies. It’s a time capsule filled with outdated interests and failed life goals. Just because you failed doesn’t mean others will. Give that pair of roller blades to little Jimmy. That calligraphy set you never opened? Well, wrap that sommabitch! Remember that typewriter you use as a door stop? Give that ancient bastard to your nephew and call it an antique.
Stuff from around other people’s houses
Okay, look, I’m not advocating the act of breaking into someone’s home and stealing their shit to use for Christmas presents. I’m merely suggesting you do it when you’re already in the house for a visit. Let’s face it, you looked around your house for things to wrap up and dump on loved ones for Christmas, but your junk is sad. YOU don’t even want it. Maybe it’s not even that. Perhaps you’re a scrappy little transient without a permanent residence. Well, jingle balls! That’s what friends are for!
Odds are that your friends’ place is a considerable upgrade from the hovel you live in. There’s no shame in that. Remember, you don’t have to enjoy the finer things in life in order for you to find good Christmas gifts. Your friends do. Next time you drop by, bring an empty pillow case. Come on, they won’t miss it. That neat little cat statue would be perfect for crazy aunt Sofia. The commemorative plate they got on their trip to Pearl Harbor? Whammo! Instant collectors item for the history buff in your family. It’s Christmas. They’ll understand. It’s all about giving.
Wait a second there, partner. Don’t forget to get something for that someone special, too. There you are, thinking about others and you plum forgot all about yourself. Awwww. That’s so sweet. Tis the reason for the season! Treat yourself. It’s alright for Santa to take a kick back every now and then. Go on, treat yourself. After all this Christmas shopping you deserve a little present of your own.
So, the other day, How the Grinch Stole Christmas was on tele. Per usual, I watched it. It’s hard to ignore things like that from your childhood. My son loves the program, but seems to root for the Grinch. He makes me so proud.
The clever boy that he is, he pointed out that the Grinch didn’t really steal Christmas. He just stole “things.” As long as the Whoos were still around, they would keep Christmas alive in their hearts. I sat there and pondered his observation for a bit. He was completely right. It’s not possible to steal an entire day, let alone one with such reverence and centuries of religious ideology. The little furry buggers would still sing, wish each other a “Merry Christmas,” and be as annoying as ever. No, sir. It wasn’t the day that was the problem. It was the Whoos. They were the problem. In order to effectively end his torment, the Grinch has to dispatch of them. ALL of them.
But how? How could the Grinch take care of his Whoo problem in one, efficient moment? Well, building a bloody sled, making a Santa costume, and dressing up your little dog sure as hell won’t help. He has to get creative. Luckily, human history is riddled with pointers for the person who wants to wipe out an entire people.
1. Nuclear explosion
Perhaps the most obvious way to take care of the Whoo menace is to detonate a nuclear warhead in the center of town. It’s fast, thorough, and (if done correctly) will leave the area completely uninhabitable for decades. The Grinch lives far away on a mountain top. There’s a good chance that the trade winds will blow the fallout away from his cave. However, just to be safe, he will want to invest in the proper safety equipment. Hey, to solve the problem, one must make sacrifices. The bastard is already green and covered with fur. How much more damage can radiation do?
Alright, some of you may wonder how the Grinch could get his green hands on such a device. Apparently, it’s not too difficult. With thousands of surplus Soviet nuclear weapons out there, every half assed wanker with enough cash and a certain level of insanity can start his own collection.
2. Blankets infected with small pox
This method of extermination is nothing new. Conspiracy theories tell us the US Army perfected this little ditty in the 19th century when it wanted to get rid of those pesky Plains Indians. Well, that’s what wannabe Indian and political controversy whore Ward Churchill would have you believe. This story is, more than likely, a complete fabrication and a poor attempt to shoehorn douche bag behaviour into history.
Regardless of whether the US Army actually did this or not, it’s a viable option for our grinchy fellow. Under the guise of making peace, he can have crates of infected blankets sent to every Whoo in Whooville. He just wants to make sure they are all warm and snuggly throughout the winter. But, wait. Something is wrong. One Whoo gets sick. Then another. Then another. They’re dropping like flies now! I guess the Grinch kept the small pox vaccine all to himself.
3. Fuel-Air Bomb
A Fuel-Air bomb is a thermobaric weapon that, quite literally, sucks in all the available oxygen and sets the surround atmosphere on fire. This gives you all the horrific face melting punch of a nuke, without those pesky radiation side effects. The only issue is that this Satan-spawn engine of destruction must be dropped on its target. I’ve watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas many times. I don’t recall ever seeing an airplane hangar carved into the mountain side, so it’s safe to say he doesn’t have adequate air transportation. He could have a helicopter sitting on a pad somewhere, but the topography of his mountain makes it terribly unlikely.
Given the Grinch’s knack for building, I have no doubt he is fully capable of constructing some sort of rudimentary catapult on his mountain top in order to sling that bad boy to its target.
If Zombiland has taught me anything, it’s that the walking dead are dumber than a bag of hammers and easily killed. An assortment of other zombie movies show that, once the human food supply runs out, they start to feed on each other. It’s a win-win for the Grinch.
I’m going to skip over how, exactly, our green genocide machine can acquire the needed mutant gene/bio-weapon/magic spell. It’s the bloody Dr. Suess world. If those little hairy tossers in Whooville can invent completely ridiculous contraptions to play with (and they work), then the Grinch can be just as resourceful and get his hateful hands on some zombie-making fuel.
Once the plan is in motion, that yellow eyed engine of hate can sit back and watch the fun. What he chooses to do is completely up to him. For a little sport, he can set up shop on a rocky outcrop of his mountain fortress and pick off the zombie Whoos one by one with a high-powered rifle. Or, if he’s in the mood for something more passive, simply watch the Whoos turn on each other and feast, feast, feast.
5. Poison the Town’s Food and Water Supply
If the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan taught us anything it was that the fastest way of eradicating an entire town is by poisoning their food and water supply. Well, that and the historical precedent of easily invading Afghanistan, but being unable to leave it once you’ve finished. That’s another story, entirely.
Chances are Whooville’s water comes from a source in the high mountain tops surrounding them. Perhaps a cold mountain stream like the one shown in the Coors commercials. Yes. Just like that, but without the horrible, tasteless moose piss that is Coors Light.
As with old Cold War nuclear weapons, there are multiple caches of unused biological weapons dating back to the First World War. He doesn’t even have to break into the Deseret Chemical Depot in Utah and pinch a few pounds from their stockpile of over 6000 short tons. That’s a good thing, because 1. He will, more than likely, be killed trying to break in and 2. He won’t have to set foot inside Utah. If given the choice between the two, choose death.
Luckily, our Grinchy Grinch doesn’t have to make that decision. No, sir. This green embodiment of Whoo hate can wait for the shells of World War I mustard gas to come to him! A clamming vessel off the shores of Long Island is hauling this stuff in like there’s no tomorrow. There won’t be a tomorrow if someone drops one of those bad boys.
These are just a few ideas off the top of my head. No doubt the Grinch could come up with a dozen more ideas; all equally effective and horrific. Then, he doesn’t have to worry about sneaking into every Whoo house in Whooville, stealing all their decorations and gifts, and avoid the mind games of Cindi Lou Whoo.
First off, let me tell you how happy I am that the end of this godforsaken year is in sight. I am sure I can speak for my wife when I say 2010 has been ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. Of course, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. I have no doubt that many of you were slapped in the face with the used toilet paper of life. Somehow, that makes me just a bit happier. Not that misery loves company (not JUST that), but because I generally wish ill upon mankind. Hey, the ill will has to start somewhere. Why not with people I know?
Before I go on, let me just say that I apologize for sending a form letter. Everybody that writes one of these year-end Christmas letters says that. I mean it. I didn’t want to write a letter at all. I, personally, don’t want you people in my shit. The only thing I care less about than your life is telling people about mine. While I’m apologizing, I might as well say that some of these letters are printed on the back of some old STD informational forms and flyers from World War II I found in a dumpster. I don’t have the money to spend on neat, clean sheets of paper. We’re not all made of money. I think you’ll find the ominous VD exam posters particularly festive.
I suppose this is the point where I have to offer updates on my family and such. In order to avoid typing more than I have to, I’ve put it all in bullet point form.
- I was laid off by my employer
- My previous place of employment burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I, recently, ran for public office- running on the “pistol whip your child” platform
- I was beaten soundly by my political opponent
- My political opponent’s home burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I applied for several jobs in the area, but nothing panned out
- Several places of business in the area burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I’m working on becoming an alcoholic
- Tried to join the fire department, but didn’t make the cut
- Ironically, the local fire department burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I joined the police force.
- The local police station is standing and fire free
- We got a cat
The only good thing about 2010 is that it was full of valuable life lessons for me. For instance, did you know that most convenience stores hand out free packs of matches? They’re great for a multitude of things; lighting candles, making campfires, and burning evidence.
Another important tidbit of knowledge I gathered is how to properly make a Molotov cocktail. It’s easier than you think. It’s amazing what you can do with packing peanuts and the proper mixture of kerosene and tar.
Perhaps, the most amazing thing that has happened in 2010 is the fact that I’m still married. Aside from the wife’s annoying tendency to be a perfect human being, she has been very supportive of my struggles this year. She has also been quite useful for the occasional alibi and no longer bothers asking questions when I come home covered in soot. Although, the internalizing of all that stress could, conceivably, manifest itself into some sort of brain tumor down the road. I guess we’ll find out.
This year has been the Road Runner to my Wile E. Coyote. And that fucking Acme mail order company keeps screwing me over. But, ultimately, I am to blame. I keep ordering their defective and fucktarded products thinking that “THIS TIME” I’ll finally get that feathered road running fuck.
Let’s face it; no one wants to be with their family for the holidays. Anyone who says differently is a fucking liar. Each year many of us ruin a perfectly good Christmas by spending it with people we voluntarily severed ties with. Somehow, the rules change for the holidays. We have to be all nice and social and shit.
This is especially true during Christmas. Somewhere along the line Charles Dickens brain washed society into believing Christmas is a time for forgiveness and family. Well, I don’t forgive and family is the reason why I wake up crying at night.
There is no way I can avoid this train wreck. My wife is very traditional and… well, normal. She had a normal childhood with normal relatives. Her family seems to … um… do that love thing. She has two sisters, bringing the total to three girls in her immediate family. I don’t know what that was like to grow up with. I imagine it had something to do with holding hands, singing Kumbaya, and pillow fights in their underwear. Sorry. That sort of shit is in my head all the time. I mean all of them are smoking hot. Let a guy dream. Hold on. Now I have the most amazing picture in my head. Give me a minute.
I, on the other hand, grew up with two brothers. Three boys in one family spells clusterfuck. I’m the middle child, and therefore, the most awesome. Where there may have been tickle fights among the sexy sisters in my wife’s family, there were fist fights and constant emotional pain for us. Our childhood years were devoted to seeing how many swirlies we could give each other before one of us snapped. For the record, it’s eight.
There has always been a certain amount of animosity between me and my older brother, “Greg.” By animosity, I mean outright shit-tastic rage. Greg is a holier-than-thou fucker that lives to point out when I fuck up. Hey, asshole, I don’t need that. I’m married. That shit happens by default.
My little brother, “Gene”, is almost as awesome as I am. Being the youngest, he doesn’t feel the need to live up to anyone’s standards. It’s completely OK if he wakes up in a dumpster smelling of cheap vodka and Chanel. It’s Gene! He so crazy!
The wife makes me go home for a lot of the holidays. I guess it’s alright to a certain extent. Her family is nauseatingly affectionate. They’re so polite and sweet to each other. That shit makes me sick. There’s so much nice floating around, I usually have to step out for some air. Where’s the fucking animosity? How are you supposed to unwrap gifts without throwing a bowling ball at someone? This is just insanity.
We’re from lower/central Alberta. It’s a good twelve hour ride o’ hell from where we live in Montana. That gives me plenty of time to plan for the circus of horrors. At any given time it’s 5 degrees, but the rage Greg and I emit raises the temperature to a balmy 10. My loving and oh so naive wife gives me a pep talk every year. I don’t have the heart to tell her that it does nothing. The only thing that would truly help is a bottle of Windsor and a shit ton of explosives.
So, why do we subject ourselves to this bullshit? Tradition? Sentiment? The possibility of putting my Yule log in my wife’s fireplace? Yeah, it’s that last one. Like you’re above bartering for sex. Married sex is a game of Risk for the husband. You’re constantly attempting to figure out the other’s next move. For the wife, it’s more like a game of hitting a bunch of bottles at the fair, except instead of a little shit BB gun, she has a friggin rocket launcher. Husbands just aren’t hard to get. I’m proud of that shit.
Everyone has some issues. Some have enough issues to fill a fucking newspaper stand in Times Square. There are a metric shit-ton of dysfunctional families out there. Even the most functional suffer a core meltdown during the holidays.
In some families it’s sibling rivalry. In others, it’s the cold hard truth that your dad always wanted a boy. There are always those precious few that have an “uncle” no one talks about. Be it Uncle Joe and his disturbing obsession with women’s underwear or Uncle Sheamus who spent the better part of the 80’s building bombs for the IRA using alarm clock parts and road flares.
Yeah… One of Sheamus ‘ “novelty” alarm clocks.
So, again, why do we do this to ourselves? We all have our reasons. I already told you mine (married sex). Some of you have forgotten what hellish treats the homestead has in store and need a refresher. Either way, we’re all idiots.
After surviving the arctic tundra that is southern Alberta, well pulled into my parents’ driveway. My parents love my wife. She’s the daughter they never had; which is sort of disturbing, because that would mean we’re in an incestuous relationship. That shit may happen in Manitoba, but not here, Bub. Don’t believe me? This article (about inbred sparrows) says it all!
My record for the shortest amount of time between arrival and being fuck-shit pissed beyond belief is one hour. Sorry, it WAS one hour. Within thirty minutes the rage fuse was lit; middle son fighting oldest son while the youngest son eggs them on and takes bets. The mother begging them to get along and the father pouring himself another highball… that’s Christmas mother fucker!
Above: Means of escape.
I won’t bore you with the bullshit details. Let’s just say that someone assaulted someone else with a wreath and that someone else returned fire with a life sized baby Jesus.
After a fifteen minute bourbon break, we resumed the thirty year war. Efforts to barter for peace were futile. My nephew asked if I was “Going to kill daddy?” Being the great uncle I am, I told him “Yes.”
Yeah, I hear you judgmental pricks. “But, Roode, assaulting your brother with the baby Jesus isn’t the grown up thing to do.” Shut the fuck up! In familial situations like this, there are only three options.
1. Keep drinking Cisco until your liver literally punches a hole through your abdomen and leaves.
2. Lock yourself in the bathroom and assume the fetal position.
3. Assault your brother with a plastic baby Jesus.
At the time, number 3 (with a healthy dose of number 1) was the most logical choice.
Somehow, we made it through Christmas without sending someone to the hospital… again. No, I don’t hate Greg. I have been programmed to love my brother. I wasn’t programmed to like the son-of-a-bitch. I wouldn’t want to see him killed. That is, unless, it was by my hand.
After the goodbyes were said, my wife begged me to be the “bigger man” and let the ceaseless war drop until next year. So I did. To her knowledge, anyway. I may or may not have shampooed his car’s carpet with spoiled eggnog before we left. Suck on that fucker!
I don’t know if a full and real truce will ever be reached. At the moment, we’re more like Israel and Palestine; with a lot less ethnic cleansing and a lot more alcohol. I guess that would make my parents’ house the Gaza Strip.
Somewhere, in there, my dad is pouring himself another highball.