Celine Dion Had it Right – These ARE Special Times
It’s December! What that means is that I have my Christmas tunes in heavy rotation and GOD DAMN do I love a good medley of carols. I’m working hard on my annual Christmas mix CD, a gift I hand out to all my favorite peoples. If you don’t get one then you don’t matter. That’s what it’s going to be titled this year. It was either that or Fuck You, Whore! But it’s the holidays and I don’t think my mom would appreciate getting anything with that written across it and I know this because the last time I said whore within earshot during the holidays of 2009, she cried for like, eight minutes straight.
So, I know you’re all out there waiting to know how I’ll celebrate my first ever Christmas as a single person in roughly 14 years and the answer to that is simple: booze, smokes and two unwatched seasons of The Biggest Loser.
I’ll commence the drinking on 12/22 at our office holiday party. I’ll start off simple, with a ginger ale, to prepare my stomach for the onslaught of delicious liquors. Then I’ll make it safely home in time to fill up my first 44 ouncer of McNaughton’s and more McNaughton’s and then I’ll snuggle into bed with a box of Kleenex, a plate of Christmas cookies and a small ham. I will also include several mini quiche and a Hickory Farms cheese ball for throwing during wild fits of drunken self-hate rage seizures. I figure that after roughly 36 hours of near constant drinking and eating of sugared treats, I’ll slip into a nine hour coma. When I emerge I’ll be disoriented and possibly violent or prone to making online purchases on Etsy or an Internet gun store using our neighbor’s stolen credit cards, procured in a booze-filled blackout robbery in which I will also steal their daughter’s pink bicycle and a waffle maker. I will commit several crimes against humanity, including taking in the neighborhood Holiday Homes Tour on my new pink bike while in the nude and Christmas caroling at the local grocery store in the deep and angry key of Henry Rollins and/or Rob Zombie.
I’ll take up voodoo. I’ll use my new-found skills and those of my forefathers and foremothers of questionable origin to curse those I dislike with hair loss and rickets. For several minutes I’ll believe I’m Jesus Christ and demand birthday gifts from the cashiers at Bartell Drugs, where I will have hitchhiked to in order to procure more cigarettes, a jumbo box of Hot Tamales and a bottle of Vitamin D. Afterward I’ll believe I’m three of the five original members of Def Leppard and sit on the patio playing songs on the guitar from the album Pyromania which will all sound eerily similar to the Violent Femmes song Blister in the Sun. I will change the word for orangutan to whoremonkey and send notifications to every major hard copy and online dictionary and encyclopedia, every major news outlet, the entire staff of Oprah and the five resident whoremonkeys at the Woodland Park Zoo to advise them of this modification.
Later that day, I’ll become a Somali pirate and attack a freight vessel in Puget Sound, taking the crew hostage. I’ll demand Sour Patch Kids, a six-pack of Rolling Rock and whatever is in that blue crate with the graffiti that says “Nadia farts in class through her nose.” I hope it’s filled with more booze but later I’ll find out it’s mostly traditional Guatemalan clothing, 50 sacks of grain, Sister Sara’s two dead mules, $14.00 in coins of various denominations and a 1/2 ton of mescaline. I’ll package the mescaline for resale and deal it on the corner of 2nd and Pike. Whatever I don’t sell I’ll brew into a large pot of tea. In the 12 hours worth of wild hallucinations to proceed, I’ll invent what will be known as the The Theory of Ho-Whereness: The Explanation of What Happened To All Our Hos (hint: They’re in Australia and they aren’t speaking to me). The money I make will be promptly spent on this pole dancer alarm clock, and a customized cupcake car from Nieman Marcus.
I’ll found a small village just off the train tracks near my home and call it Kijong-Dong II. I’ll construct several small huts and force resident wildlife to live in them as humans would. I’ll claim to have invented the grilled cheese sandwich but later change my mind. I forgot. It wasn’t the grilled cheese sandwich it was the Haber Process for making artificial nitrates. Also, the modern zipper. I’ll wind down back at home, enjoying one last jug of whiskey and a packet of powdered cheese from the Kraft mac & cheese box. I’ll fall asleep dreaming of you. We’re holding hands. It makes me happy. And then the Rapture comes.
Or maybe I’ll just hang out with my parents. I hear this year they’re making a ham AND roast beef.